I open my hand and blow the petals away. Each vibrant color representing a memory that I would like to part with. There are a few that linger there so softly. It would be painful to blow them again, so I pick up my paint brush and gently try to cover them. I look down at my hand: there lies a colorful array of tears and paint. I use this new mixture to sweep across the tainted white canvas that you have given me. It was brand new, but the dirt of my life has left a stain. Where there should be white, there are words instead and quick passages of thoughts. Passages that lead to bridges and ditches; roads going somewhere I don't know. So I'm going to try to start brand new on something that is stained. I'm going to paint me a road where I should have returned many miles ago. I am going to paint a bridge to cross the ditch that I made for myself. There's not enough dirt in this wheelbarrow to fill the scar on my heart, but there's enough wood to try and fix it. I never thought I'd see the day when the foundations for this bridge would be laid, but here they are, made with both our hands. Mine with swirls of the palest, of colors sparkling from the teardrops - yours shades of the richest, finest, and darkest forms of red. Red from your own blood, shed for me