Flower on my lap

 Delicate and fragile,
A flower on my lap
Fell as I was occupied
By the words and lines
Of the book you gave me.
Do you remember that night?
When we walked past a jasmine tree
On the streets that seemed so empty
But were full of our love,
As we kissed tenderly?
You picked a small white flower
And gave it to me.
And as small or meaningless
As it may seem,
It had every possible meaning
That one could imagine,
For it was you
Who gave it to me.

Ever since I was a little girl, writing has been my passion and my escape. I wanted a platform where this small voice - that usually dares only be heard by the notebook in the corner of my room - can reach out to the world. I have always been fascinated by this ability we have to turn a transient thought or feeling into something that could last forever and that could be communicated to any other member of our species who would stumble upon it. After all, we're one and the same, aren't we? Our hopes, dreams, fears, pain, joy are what make us who we are. This page is for you out there reading it, so I invite you to delve into this notebook as if it were your own. Welcome to my notebook. Many thanks to the creator of this page who made my dream come true.

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