I lean into that farmer of mine. The tears flow freely; the ache piercing. Its not fair I say. I don't like this plan. I want to cook for him, hear his voice, look into the deep blue eyes. I want to know how he is doing and dance at his wedding. I want to pick up his dirty clothes and fight with him. Fighting with him was like sparring. Engaging, mentally challenging and exhausting all at once. That dear farmer of mine wraps me tight in those long arms. He holds me while I release the pent up tears. Tears I have tried to not shed for months now. Feeling like I am a burden to ... View Post