If yearning was a flower, mine would be called Pitiful.
I fear the kind of gardener I’ll become if tending to Moving On flower fields. I seem to be following behind, but really I’m much further than the image appears. It might even seem that I’m walking through flowers because she’s walking through flowers, but she never looks back, never calls my name, and may not even know I’m there. Still, she’s the only one I talk to, the only one I see. Sometimes I want to stop, but then wonder who I’ll be to a someone that someday might see beauty in Pity and walk along with me. Sometimes I Pause, admire her pregnancy, and imagine what would happen if she just swallowed me.