I was fine
with waiting;
the breeze
of melancholy
carries with it
the distant smell
of blossoming flowers.
If waiting means
I can spend my time
imagining those flowers,
whose nectar,
whose petals,
entrance me with such splendour,
then I do not mind waiting.
At times, I envy
those who chose
to pluck from the ground
the flowers they had cherished.
But I...
Alas.
How I long for
a past
I did not have.
Nov 4, 2021
Nov 4, 2021 at 1:47 PM UTC
I was fine
with waiting;
the breeze
of melancholy
carries with it
the distant smell
of blossoming flowers.
If waiting means
I can spend my time
imagining those flowers,
whose nectar,
whose petals,
entrance me with such splendour,
then I do not mind waiting.
At times, I envy
those who chose
to pluck from the ground
the flowers they had cherished.
But I...
Alas.
How I long for
a past
I did not have.
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