A part of me is longing.
I long for things to be unsaid. I long for things unsaid to be somehow understood. I long for what was left behind. I long to have said goodbye gracefully before the parting. And I long for what flew away with a backwards glance.
My strongest longing is to feel no longing. It is a part of me, this longing and I think, if I try hard enough I shall wish it away.
The pieces of me that fit perfectly into the slots allowed are smooth. The pieces of me that don’t are raw. I try, but I can not discard those pieces of me that are sharp and rough around the edges. I try to soften them under a layer of soft milky down in my pillow they are still there, always there. If I lay my head down without care, they poke me.
They say, “We are still here. You cannot get rid of us. Pretend otherwise, but here we shall always be.”
Sigh. I breathe.
The longing is perhaps a loving, a melancholy turning of moments over and over in the palms of our hands, wishing with each turn and swell of emotion that we can make those moments right. We fiddle with them and try to smooth them with the sands of time held in moments remembered and hoped for.
I dream of love and longing. I long for love in my dreams.
I am a simple thing, imperfect and hopeful even in loss. Where, oh where, did my flower go?
Please come back tomorrow for a new “Weed Image of the Day” and let me know which ones you like.
We and our weeds are so much more than what we first appear to be.
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