My dear little patio, so esteemed in my nostalgic perspective. She's so modestly furnished and starved for adornment. I am nothing but comatose at the thought of her figure. I've crossed my fingers before. May I share a little sympathy on her behalf? She's skin and bones. Yet, all I I've loved are the ferns and my cloves. Should the lantern burn out whilst I am turning pages, I'd be quick to strike a match. Why then is she so famished for my concern? What an empty little dwelling I've created! You see, it takes both my recipient & I to score the surface of an awakening. After months of what I'd perceived to be confiding, I'd found myself concealing. My bottom lip possesses a tendency to turn downward. Denial cannot exist in a face like mine; I've confronted my inability to purse. Should his heart grow too large for it's encasement, it may begin to leak into my speech.