In the meadow of golden rose petals I stumble toward you.
I feel the wind rushing through my hair, all the while getting closer to embracing the earth. Back to the solid ground underneath those evergreen grasses, piercing through my flimsy feet like a blade and I cannot catch my breath. I cannot stand. I cannot grow like the branches of those willow trees. I cannot be what they are. Wise and strong, I am weak. I. The Letter As the chill of the November air slowly creeps down your scaly spine—still the memory lingers. You’re taken back to that night; that cold, dark, sad night as you wrote down the words concealed in a letter addressed to a dear friend. They were the words, the silly little words—the words that bleed red in love, the ones that could significantly change your life forever. On an impulse, without thinking, you tell him everything. How you will never forget the way he made you feel, the way he makes you smile, even though he is no longer around. You watch him, still in the distance and yet you keep falling—slowly.
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Editorial Staff
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