My Love Must Be a Flower
We leave the residues of our existences everywhere — fingerprints, warmth, kisses, handkerchief. Our breaths are just spent slivers suspended in the air.
Each place on Earth is a giant graveyard, then: a mass burial of bodies, longings, and absences. Death on top of death, a chaotic stack.
It may be easy to confuse it with cruelty. But, even in cemeteries, flowers bloom only to whisper hope — promises of survival to be seen and touched. Mercy.
My love must be a flower.