A desk. A desk behind me and to my left.
How delicate is the flower upon that desk,
Bright, filled with color, but not for long.

She has been plucked, picked.
This means she was chosen,
She is special,
But how long before she fades?
I hope she and the flower beside her
Hold on to that color,
But they’d have to be fake to do so.

A flower, two flowers, lie delicately
On an empty desk.
One is full, whose petals radiate with
A pink glow, while the other, a little more sparse.
The former has an ant crawling on it, while
The latter twinkle, delicately shivering in the
Air conditioning.

Two flowers,
Two entirely different stories,
Stuck at the same desk.