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A Ballpoint Pen

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How did a person know when they were in love? People’s lives didn’t change overnight; the tragedy and heartbreak, she’d been born tenderhearted, unforgiving, to be wasted. She was helping out a friend, seven years before, the day had been dismal. It was the source of her fear. Her shoulders were hunched miserably fraught with humiliation and guilt, truly alone now. He had the perfect opportunity, the chance to create with her. He took her hands and urged her toward him, she pleaded, her face suddenly forlorn and sad, cold embers of a long suppressed passion. He’d been glad to see her, tears glistening, she looked up at him. She desperately wanted him to gently claim her . . . just a simple kiss. He could turn her to mush. She gave in, freely and without inhibition, it would take a miracle. Saying a silent prayer: keep her overnight; she had warmed up to him. Another tear traced its way down her cheek, back to bed with him, eternal seconds of quivering, shocked silence. The loss of life. Come home. She has no home, walk away out of fear, a very raggedy Raggedy Ann doll. If she ever gave her heart to a man . . . don’t forget. Tears stung her eyes. “Did you tell your parents?” a broken home “Are you all right?” a work in progress, unshed tears. The unspoken question: please help me, broke the stillness. A ballpoint pen, “For when you start writing.” The story of the tulip: hope and new life, honesty and innocence, made her eyes flood with tears. Love? Begin to heal. Actually grow to love her, tears still streaming down her face. Remember: I will always be close to your heart.





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