someone asks me who got
me these flowers;
winding soft
promising petals,
crushing and breathing
and blushing under my reverent gaze.
whispering flower secrets
to one another, clutched like
a
prayer in the corner of my corner
of london.
and one must wonder,
what does a bouquet like this mean?
one must ask what love
could be so pure. one must
ask
what love could ever
blossom such beautiful roses.
such pretty orchids ( natasha’s
favourite flower in natasha’s favourite month )
one must ask
why this teenage girl
hangs lights on her wall
and keeps a tissue box with the word ‘cherish’
on
it and
listens all
day to chiming love songs.
and one must must must
enquire about this bouquet
on her desk,
proud and fragrant,
saying enough in itself.
the roses speak of a resilient love,
a love scent that stays
on your
clothes, everyone sees it. the baby’s
breath speaks of this persevering love,
unconditional.
in this big city, in these blinding lights;
unconditional.
and these beautiful beautiful
orchids blossom
just like she does,
with wide eyes and rosy cheeks
and a smile less hesitant
though still lopsided with only one barely
there dimple.
this bouquet demands
one to
ask which love could keep
them
alive for this cold cold
month. one must
query, the stars
or the stargirl herself,
which Angel left their wings
in her bedroom.
can Heaven come of flowers?
the roses smile at us.
who got you this bouquet?
me i say,
i got myself these flowers.
and i smile,
for i am here.
[service announcement: what is to be said of her orchid perfume?! she walks like in a dream, smelling like a love she cannot deny. this love affair in the cold months of london cannot articulate itself. flowergirl has not felt this beautiful in years]
ps: when she is alone amongst the lights and buildings far taller than her she sits by the canal and writes of this love, its shape and orchid-smell and flowergirl writes that she feels loved.
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