we pick flowers because we like them displayed how we please
not how they truly grow.
what gives us a right to stop their life?
to watch them slowly droop to a wilting death
for our own personal pleasure.

so, let's blossom and sprout our small vines
and maybe we'll intertwine along the way.
we'll sustain as long as we can in this vase
as our petals slowly fall away.

and our water in dry, and our stems shrivelled up.
I'd rather die with you, two withered blossoms
than be the one who decides
which stems to cut.