[ Wp ] Due to severe brain trauma as a kid , you may only speak in metaphors . It sure as hell wo n't stop you from breaking up with your SO .

John, thistle flower, you have gone to seed, and though the bite has gone out of you, I find you clinging. You are in the folds of my coat and the seams of my trousers. I find your down wafting through my air, catching the sunlight and casting it out. Even the light of my eye can not be mine, but must be filtered through your little clouds. 
 
 And, John, the crux and climax is this: seed is for quickening. Am I soil, John? What is soil? The breaking down of ancient stone, the death and rot of lively, living things. I can not, will not be soil, John. Not yet, and not for you. 
 
 Spring, John. Spring follows Winter, follows autumn, and if it is autumn now, perhaps it will be Summer soon. Do not stay fallow too long, John, or you will miss the growing season. 
 
 All my love, 
 
 Rose
