More Than Flowers

I have always felt that flowers,

Though pretty, never quite tell the truth.

They are plucked from their own beginnings,

Roots severed, petals destined to wilt

For the sake of someone else's moment.

They smell sweet, yes,

But even perfume forgets the story it came from.

Fragrance fades like apologies said too soon.

To me, a bouquet has always whispered:

“Let's not talk about the past,”

As if beauty could bury what still aches.

Give me something that holds memory instead:

A card with your handwriting trembling in its corners,

A stuffed bear that knows the weight of arms,

A photograph that doesn't flinch from time.

Give me something that stays.

Because flowers die,

But small things—

Those quiet, thoughtful, lasting things—

They bloom differently.

They root themselves in remembrance.

And that, to me,

Is love.