A lost flower found herself empty with a tobacco on her hand. She has dying stems and her insides are burning. The flower acknowledges that the smokes are never good for her leaves; but her roots demand for heat that only the smoke can give.
The flower never learned how to sing,
she always keep it all inside until her fullness made her stems produce another bloom.
The truth is, the lost flower never really danced. It is all because of the wind, an old lover, that has never been absent but was not always there. It was the wind who brought her to the ground.
No, it was not the rain that killed her, it is who helped her live. But the rain one day stopped, and leave the lost flower drowning.
The flower met the sun since the first time, but she never gave him any sense. Perhaps its true, when things are being done repeatedly - it loses its meaning. The sun saved her from drowning, he absorbed every sadness and shouldered the sweet tears of the lost flower. The flower know that the sun is too good for a flower, the flower left the sun for the sky.
And the flower grew, her petals are now too strong for the wind. Her stems are now too big to get drown by the rain. She had seen the rainbow that was made by the sun and the sky. She knew that everything will fall into its rightful places.
She found her space, in that corner, with the cigarette that never ask for more. The cigarette is in fondness of the flower’s scent. He thinks that the flower is enough to keep him warmth. And that is enough for the tobacco.
Whatever the cigarette and the lost flower have is akin to art.
He would paint her at the back of his books. And she would write him letters.
There were promises made that both of them knew it’s not going to happen.
Because they have so little time.
Short enough that its hard to recognise each others faces.
They have all the rights to blame the fate but they chose to kiss the night and touch everything and made every moment exquisite.
As time goes by the flower is no longer lost, the cigarette found her in that corner. The flower is slowly dying, and the cigarette is now turning to ash.
They held hands as they have the city lights inside their eyes. He asked her if she regret chosing to spend the night with him. She said no. Because there is nothing that the cigarette have done that can disappoint the flower.
She had seen the darkness and the fire and she chose both.
They kissed and watched themselves burn.
10:57 am
July 14, 2018 Thursday
Letters I should have gave you last 31st