Delicate photos on Flickr

The wind swept across the sea, its icy fingers brushing the shore where a small, abandoned boat rocked gently in the waves. Frost clung to its wooden planks, delicate as lace, whispering of the man who had once filled it with hope and love. He had prepared it with such care. A magnificent bouquet rested on the bench, its vibrant colors defying the gray desolation of winter. Roses, lilies, and wildflowers each chosen with her in mind, each petal a silent vow. The bouquet was to be his gift, a gesture as grand as the love he carried in his heart.

He had imagined it so vividly. She would be waiting by the shore, her figure wrapped in a heavy coat, her cheeks kissed pink by the cold. A smile would light up her face as he rowed toward her, the water parting before him. When he was close enough, he would throw the bouquet into her waiting arms. But she never came.

The hours dragged on, their weight pressing against him like the winter sky. The light faded, and with it, his hope. He waited, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Every distant sound set his heart racing only to let it fall, heavy and aching, into the pit of his chest.

Now the boat sat alone, the flowers, so vibrant, had begun to bow their heads beneath the frost, as if mourning with him. Where had she gone? Had fate intervened to keep her away, or was her absence a quiet refusal, too painful for words? “Why didn’t you come?”

What had been a vessel for his love and devotion had become a monument to his solitude. The cold crept into the wood, into the flowers, and into the man’s heart, leaving nothing but silence and questions unanswered. The boat still lies there, a frozen relic of a love that was never fulfilled. And when the wind howls through the cliffs, it carries his question, echoing through the emptiness...

“Why didn’t you come?”

**My heart, my words. Please respect them.**

Dear reader,

These words you are reading right now, whether it's a poem, a short story, or a thought is a piece of my soul. I write with passion, each word flowing from my heart, deeply connected to me. My poems are not just words, they are alive, carrying my emotions and essence within them.

If you plan to take them without my permission, know this: you are also taking a piece of my soul. And with every stolen word, I will always be present within the lines you use.

So be mindful… You never know what lies hidden between the lines, for words hold a power that goes far beyond the visible.💫

🌍 Explore this place

Delicate by Peaches Ashdene

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Credits > peacheswhimsy.blogspot.com/2018/08/delicate.html

Delicate Arch by garshna

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My first attempt to capture stars at this iconic arch. Let's just say i learned that i have a lot more learning to do.

Delicate Painting by Theaterwiz

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Delicate Arch Light Painting, NxNW Moab Utah, Arches National Park

Hanging out behind a David Black Light Painting workshop,