If I slice my heart open, you will see flowers sprout and roots sewing the pieces back together gently and softly.
If I turn my back to you and offer up my spine as a fishing rod, you will see feathers nesting in between my bones.
If I open up my palm and reach out to yours, you can look down on my life line growing.
My scars are there, unhidden, unapologetic.
Look closely and see how they have healed, untainted by pain, unaffected by loss.
My skin reminds me of your touch and my heart beats singing your name.
But my skin is thick and remembers what it needs to grow brighter.
And my heart is fierce and only remembers how light is something that comes from within and not from people.
This is a story void of metaphors.
This is a tale with no symbolism.
This is a love letter.
This is a love letter to you.
You have brought my wilting heart back.
You have breathed the memories of what it feels like to be capable of generous love.
But love is fickle.
And when I say fickle and remember you, I stop myself.
I see how before we were the ghost of something undefined, we were the light of a burning candle in the midst of darkness.
But for now I cradle my heart, slowly, let it unfold, and tell it the story of how it overcame many crashing waves in order to enjoy the warm sun.