You don’t like flowers.
You say they rot in just a few hours.
But the happiness they bear
still lingers softly in my air.
You say you hate questions—
answers are your only mentions.
I don’t understand how you’re calibrated,
or the cold behavior you’ve created.
So I won’t get flowers from the shop,
you won’t have to watch them rot.
I won’t ask questions or ease your mind—
I guess your love will stay undefined.
What’s the point of it all, to pretend?
It’s the journey that matters in the end
Ironic as it may seem,
rotting was the best part of the dream.