She breathes love as the wind moves the clouds above fields rich in their emerald lushness. She feels it radiate in her heart and shine out through her eyes so full of hope because she loves with the force of a thousand armies yet with the softness of momma’s arms. Yet it seems that no matter how sweet her kisses are, or how pure her heart, she is just never the first choice.
She doesn’t just love — she is love.
It’s not that she always questions her worth, baut it just seems that no one else can read the language of her heart, no matter how many times she bares it. She thinks that once it may happen—that someone would stand up and say that he chooses her above all others—but then reality would creep in like the black smoke churning from a midwinter’s fire, and she’d be left alone and shaken to her core once again. Continue reading “Born to Love😢”
The Art of The Hand 