Love letter # 946

When I am alone with you it is so obvious. Our love. Like a tiny flower. Or two little kids at play in a garden somewhere. Just too beautiful for the world.

In public – in the company of the loud, the graceless and the complacent – it retreats. Not able to withstand the noise; let alone the sheer thundering ugliness of it all.

This is when we drfit apart and I am lost – wondering if we will ever find the courage or the space to bring this nascent joy to bloom.

And so we sit in our separate corners. Playing along. Privately loathing it. Angry with ourselves for validating the cacophony with our mute consent.

For we are dressed in the purple of bruises. Perhaps we are now just made of wounds. Left over from the memory of breaking. Cuts afraid to bleed again.

Yet our fear will bequeath us only the things we are scared of – and the love that we feel in our few private moments will become just another scar. Is that what we want?

I doubt it.





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