The parts of a flower

Inside of solitude is often a small hand, a child's grasp at the abstract  at wanting to make sense and belong. often in life there is a mistake at timing, or a gift that goes un-noticed, a life that was broken before it began. there is this odd place in the world inside the comings and the goings where people sit and wait, watching choices take place, as if they were petals being plucked off a flower, hearts dropping. They watch, these grasps for love, among men's eyes who see beauty in  the eastern air from a different world. and we wait for her name, a question that wasn't asked, a slit inside the skin where a chance can take place. and inside these moments, these strange diseases of wonderment, we find the wrinkles on our face, and a lifetime.