Tulips and my silence (visual essay for romantic flower lovers)

 

All photos and self-portraits are made by Amapola Blooming. 

The muscle of my love

 

 Presentimiento, from the series Vanitas by Fernando Vicente 
www.fernandovicente.es

In the kindest embrace

and the saddest letting go,

the muscle of my love

longs for touching you

as it hopes to be touched by yours

and stay strong and flexible.

Through between the rusty bars

of the darkest prison,

the fingers of my love

yearn to caress your cheeks

and reach your hands

even for the faintest instant.

The muscle of my love

awakes and reaches out,

stretching its open arms,

languishing to hold you firmly,

to wrap you gently, to feel you softly

in the feeblest of the nights.

Like a dancer who can’t speak

of the future or of the past,

my love for you moves about;

at times clumsily, at times graciously,

as the muscle of my love sings freedom

at the mere thought of your bare beauty.

About lonesome love and other distances

  Winter Sunrise, Sierra Nevada, from Lone Pine, California, by Ansel Adams.

Here I am again:
another still silhouette 
standing helplessly 
among the edges 
of the highest margins.
between clustered clouds 
and vast horizons 
of distant, rising valleys.  

Holding the torch 
of my childish heart 
the unarmoured echo 
of my stubborn words 
gallops loudly. 

Squalling in protest, 
my broken voice 
strides relentlessly 
in resilient, resonant rallies:  

Why don't you?  
Why don't you dare, my love?
Why?