Pink Flamingo Haven

It will be fun meeting all the real people who are like the potential image. They are out there, waiting around the corner, perched on my lawn.

I met one such friend the other day. Out walking in the wooded wild we were, and juxtaposed with this picture was the framing of a baby’s face. It was lovely to enter a synchronized tangent; I felt like I was in the height of natural fashion, the agelessness of my very own purple-pink skin.

When my lips curled up at each end, with a dimple forming ever so slightly above the crease, every wrinkle just softened into the peace of knowing those with whom I never speak are as close as peace to an angel. But if this be heaven, our haven, then why do we feel so craven? Patience is that little edge of heart, racing, that says you can make it and slays to the waning.

I almost thought the time in between two sightings had become seamless, less seemingly real than a prayer.  But for them that be, for whom I wish, I wish, I, like you; you are the potential image of all the people who are real, waiting around the corner, around the corner of the creases of my upward-ended curling, flamingo lips.

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