"You thought it was love?"  
she mocked,  
as the sword deepened through his chest.  

"It was never love."  

"I knew it," he said,  
"as it was more beautiful  
than love ever can be".

Her hand wrapped around him,  
like chains of hatred,  
as her sword embraced his heart.  

He smiled,  
as the pain swallowed him.  

"I die by your sword,  
but still in your arms."

Once, you bloomed with reckless grace,
soft petals blushing in love’s embrace.
The wind would sigh your fragrant name,
as morning light adorned your frame.

Held in hands that trembled sweet,
pressed to lips where longing meets.
A whispered promise, a fleeting vow,
yet time has traced you different now.

Your crimson fades, your petals fall,
but love once touched you—that is all.
For though you wilt in golden dusk,
you lived, you loved, and that’s enough.

Some rest in a lover’s trembling hands,
whispering vows too soft to last.
Some lie upon a quiet chest,
a farewell kiss from petals past.

Some twirl free in the morning breeze,
brushing the sky in fleeting flight.
Some are pressed between old pages,
holding echoes of moonlit nights.

Some are worn behind an ear,
a fragrant crown for fleeting youth.
Some are crushed beneath careless feet,
forgotten before they bloomed.

Some wilt alone, unseen, unsung,
fading into the earth once more.
Yet all have known a moment’s grace,
a touch, a tear, a love once pure.

For every petal tells a story,
each bloom a breath, a life, a chance—
and whether scattered, held, or broken,
every flower still must dance.

— 🌸

She had a habit of noticing the moon.

No matter where we were—walking down a crowded street, sitting in a café, or even mid-conversation—her eyes would flicker upward the moment the sky darkened.

"Look at that," she’d whisper, pointing like it was some rare discovery, like the moon hadn’t been there every night before. But for her, it was always new. Always worth a pause.

I never paid much attention to it before her. The moon was just... the moon. A constant, unchanging presence. But when she looked at it, she saw something else—something soft, something worth noticing.

One night, we were walking home, our hands brushing but never quite holding. She stopped suddenly, tilting her head back, eyes shining in the silver glow.

"Doesn’t it make you feel small?" she asked.

I looked at her instead of the sky. "No," I said. "Not when I’m with you."

She smiled, shaking her head at my answer, but she never said anything more. Just slipped her arm through mine, and we walked on.

Time passed. She isn’t here anymore. Not beside me on evening walks. Not stopping mid-sentence to point at the sky.

But the moon is.

And now, without meaning to, I find myself looking up every night.

Out of habit. Out of memory.

Out of love.