It has been a year since I last got to hold you in my arms. You still walk this earth, but the missing you feels as if you have left it.

A cool wind rustles the spring leaves as they slowly combust.

how does one create without the weight of the world? how does one use such a power without being drained? every time I create, a great sadness washed over me. how do i create a feather when all my tools are rocks?

A deep gold falls over the horizon. Or is it rising? Where does it go as it fades to blue?

There are two sides to a coin, and mine is always in the air

Constellations light up the inky sky. Each with a story of their own to tell. All connected through seeming specks. What is written in the stars is as old as time. So how can I doubt that which shines as the story of us unfurls like vines.

My heart longs for something that I can not yet grasp. It aches in my chest, and down to my fingertips. Reaching for something that is not yet in sight, or might never be.