Stigma

January 8, 2011
When I see you, the sun is blazing down on our faces or the wind is whistling through our leaves. It's magical. One a rose, the other an orchid. Both born for beauty and looks, but will wither quite quickly. The wind brings your pollen to my stigma. We are not meant of reach other naturally-are we? The new seeds will pass on to another eventually. I know I love you, but are wwe REALLY meant to be?





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