Wednesday, April 13, 2011

this little structure pulls me to it like a motherless child. i am a spiral of emotion and fullness when i see it's loveliness with gaping holes and wood covered windows. i can't drive past. the attraction is like an untold story from a life i didn't know i lived. and it's settled deep in me refusing to let me deny it, but never letting me know exactly what it is i'll never know. so i keep being drawn to houses that are partly strong and solid and partly rotten and crumbling. there is the blush of delight, the bubble of joy, the smile spread across it's broken front like a handful of dandelions clutched and drooping in the grimy fingers of a happy child. i want to lean against the stone. i want to dream in it's shadow. but i don't want to change a thing. i love it's story. i don't want a newly primped and prettily painted story. this is the perfect distinction between pretty and beautiful. she is already beautiful, my lovely little piece of yesterday. but she is not pretty. and doesn't need to be, her beauty surpasses it. clean and smooth and fresh and shiny would polish away her serene and effortless imperfect joy.

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