What difference is there between one rose and another rose,
between two open petals of a flower?
They say our love is different,
that I’m not mature enough to love,
as if love, and feelings,
were things of age.

I will extend my hand out towards you, friend, so you can stretch yours out to mine, but if you don’t want to, I won’t pull it away, I will leave it extended, that way another hand can rest on it, or perhaps a little bird or a wounded butterfly.

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Arlequin  (1917) Picasso Museum, Barcelona