Seasons (Of Withering)

Seasons (Of Withering)

In the sight of waiting, there are flowers that can withstand the draught of a lifetime never needing water to flourish. Like a cacti in a vast desert; a flower that blooms even when thirsted like a dry, unfulfilled sponge.

In the contrary, there are flowers who need a whole river to be able to bloom a single petal — needing a constant flow of flower — flourishing in consistency and stability.

Had I known that a single drop of water would have me yearning for more — a bucket, a well, a river, an ocean — I never would have grazed the beautiful feeling of being cared, loved, and accepted.

For someone to water you so delicately, waiting for the patient bloom of spring, is the single worst memory to remember. A memory of the golden age where a flower opens up to let the vulnerability within them be felt by others than themselves. Showing their stamen hoping they wouldn’t pluck it. Only to their gardener, though. Only towards them.

Now that it’s the season of summer, some flowers would open up to the sun, welcoming the warm embrace of March’s rays. Their yellow petals facing the sun as if it’s their first instinct — their only instinct. The desire to be like them is substantial. To be them. To be them.

Regrettably, I am not. Now that my petals know the feeling of your caress’, felt the delicate water you so thoughtfully gave, my stem discern no difference between the loving gaze of your care and a utopia of eternal amalgamation — I am now slowly wilting.

And as my petals fall one by one, along with them falls the memories we built. A bed of petals that once knew the beat of your heart and the gentleness of your soul. I am waiting, waiting to be watered again — holding on to my very last petal until I disintegrate.

Written by, Lilac.