Resin.
People use it for keeping.
I think it's just a prettier way of losing, if you ask me.
So, here's to the resin I carry: its layers thick with color, the pink of laughter, the dull silver of forgotten keys.
The kindness in me is not entirely mine. It is made of borrowed things...

Learning hurts.
It pulls me under.
Sweet at first, like citrus on the tongue,
then the peel turns bitter and I have to chew anyway.
In his office, the air is thin and holds its breath...
If I sink again, let it be far. Past grades and gazes and measured worth. Past rescue.

A professor tends his garden green,
Knows every flower and every scene.
He nurtures them with a loving hand,
And anchors them when they need to stand.
For some roses like me, that are slow in pace...

I don't know if I should wish for you or hope for us.
They say hoping is better, because for hope to exist there needs to be a mere possibility of that thing happening...
But because you are my strongest wish, as if putting scales to one's wishes, I think you are heaved up to become a hope of mine.

From those dreaded questions of my dad, to that gentlemanly bow and the kiss on my hand.
From that bouquet of roses, "Only for you, Miss", to those sheepish twirls in my pink sundress.
From catching ladybugs on our secret picnic, to eating those stale macrons — how tragic.
That's how I wanna fall for you, the old kinda way...

The earthy scent of mud,
with the brown and red in harmony,
embellished her old apple orchard, which was part of her ancestry.
It was home to all the rose bushes she had planted,
and buried the sole-prints of her grandad's morning strolls...
It taught her unconditional loyalty in this world of unsolicited cruelty.