my heartstrings were woven delicately, soft and sweet, every pluck and tug dedicated to some passion, conviction, and the last, to soul-crushing devotion
I'd paint you in dreamscapes— visions of rolling hills and fields of autumn leaves, your form draped in grass and sunset dapple— porcelain, delicate beauty, a work of art, the way I see you
there is no greater love than one that transpires despite adversity— one that stands tall and sturdy as the oak, unmoved by any wind that dares to face it