Empty Bottles Full of Stories

by R.H. Sin

Sadness, like happiness, is delicate and temporary.

A flower is still a flower . . . no matter what it goes through and no matter where it decides to bloom.

I think you want delicate hands to surf over your skin but you think you’re too hard for soft hands.

Always in me, there is a thunderstorm and some nights it understands me, while other nights it takes my breath away.

Always in me, there are maps and some nights I wander away, while other nights they lead me straight to you.