My Love Must Be a Flower

Mathias P. R. Reding

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.



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