I hold a secret, just one secret --
the way the light hits reminds me
of a summer evening --
hands, large hands, holding mine
for the briefest moment,
and my imagination spinning into flowers --
wild pinwheels
and concealing vines with scarlet funnels.
I couldn't make him see the flowers,
and that's how I could tell I was different.
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I believe that everyone here comes with good intent. If you come to spoil my assumptions by verbal abuse, excessive profanity, spam or other abuses I had not considered, I reserve the right to delete your notes or delete your participation. I am the arbiter of what violates good intent.