Cherry blossom trees, cherry blossoms, memories falling into the ground for someone else to pick up. Someone else to give to another. A story, rebirth, legacy. Born a new but the old soul. Cherrys are fresh, but cherries are can be old
Michael
The sweetest of reds, an addictive softness and warmth; those are the lips I’ve laid claim to, a sensation I’d fight for, die for. Not many in the land could have claimed the lips of such a fair maiden, I must do right by her to repay her honor.
The cherries on the tree looked to be almost ripened. It is odd, the guy thought, I thought that I could get a cherry at the store and be ready to eat, but alas, it was found to be only on time for that day. It’s the pits, he thought.
Alone sits the purest of reds, alone at the bottom of the branch, the lowest of the roots. Its stature has no match for, well nearly any other. Its taste controversial, an appearance unusual, and yet, I like those cherries. Those lonely red cherries at the bottom of the tree.
I had recently gotten into gardening, and seeing the spire of my first plant reminded me of what it felt like to be young. The endless possibilities, the bottomless rush of energy and the belief that anything could be achieved. Now old and grey, all that is gone but I have now seen another opportunity to relive those moments through these plants of mine.
Cherry blossom trees, cherry blossoms, memories falling into the ground for someone else to pick up. Someone else to give to another. A story, rebirth, legacy. Born a new but the old soul. Cherrys are fresh, but cherries are can be old
The sweetest of reds, an addictive softness and warmth; those are the lips I’ve laid claim to, a sensation I’d fight for, die for. Not many in the land could have claimed the lips of such a fair maiden, I must do right by her to repay her honor.
The cherries on the tree looked to be almost ripened. It is odd, the guy thought, I thought that I could get a cherry at the store and be ready to eat, but alas, it was found to be only on time for that day. It’s the pits, he thought.
Cherry soda, cherry floating on whipped cream, cherry lips squeezed together, cherry-blood staining fingers as you bite around the pit
Alone sits the purest of reds, alone at the bottom of the branch, the lowest of the roots. Its stature has no match for, well nearly any other. Its taste controversial, an appearance unusual, and yet, I like those cherries. Those lonely red cherries at the bottom of the tree.
The bright fruit on the coffee trees are called coffee cherries. When they are bright red, the cherry is ready to be picked.
Cherry lips, blue hair
Devil dressed as an angel
It’s that ex, screw her
I had recently gotten into gardening, and seeing the spire of my first plant reminded me of what it felt like to be young. The endless possibilities, the bottomless rush of energy and the belief that anything could be achieved. Now old and grey, all that is gone but I have now seen another opportunity to relive those moments through these plants of mine.