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.