starlightfeather13

She flows around stone and quenches fires her voice showers like rain on a spring night and feels so gentle that people misunderstand They mistake water for weakness and she indiscriminately swallows garbage letting words stagnate and pollute her She tells me ”Baby, I don’t have that passion you do your fire is so wonderful and brilliant” and I want to cry because even water can sear and turn to steam My oceanbaby, you don’t need the tiny flame in me the sea is home to the largest creatures in the world and rivers reduce mountains to sandstone I want you to roar like crashing waves and let the world know you have t

When you see her cry you get a rag, a gentle delicate clothe lovingly grasp her hand and dab its tip to dry each tear as they come and ask each drop why it'd leave such beautiful eyes. If she wishes to be in the sky Tell her to go Take the sun ransom And replace it in the sky So you can see her every morning and plead for her To return each night. When you see her scars Both visible And non touch each gently like you might caress the broken wing Of a dove and remind her that for every hurt that she's survived has only made her that much more unique that much stronger. Show her that she is worthy of love That she deserves the love she

one.     When she cries herself to sleep     six out of seven nights a week you must     say nothing. You must simply take     her in your arms and kiss her gaunt,     pale cheeks and wait for her to     slumber at the sound of your heart. two.     On the days where she wishes she     were part of the stars, tell her     no. Tell her that there are too many     lights in the sky and that just one     would be forgotten the moment you looked     away from it. Tell her that she is perfect     the way she is: completely human. three.      Don't let her think about the scars      that no one but her can see. If she      says

I met the Wanderer once, in my travels. She was on foot, and I on a horse; her pack looked heavy, her sword sharp, her eyes shallow, and so very gold. Her tongue traipsed over words like a dancer, and her lips, when she smiled, were like the bend in a river: fluid and lithe, but gone in an instant as I passed on the current. Would she sup with me? She would, and she and her melodious tones sat with me to share what I had, which was sufficient. We talked; I told her of my home and my wives, and the honey that I carried to the winery. I told her of the valley I lived in, and how green it was, how blue the mountains could be, how the river cut