I felt the flower was blooming.
Taking birth into my life.
I trusted its roots and woven my life around it.
I stood there with my world behind, stories slithering into the background.
I told the bud to keep its expectations to himself, but he couldn't.
It was rotting and dying little by little every day, still carrying the baggage.
Isn't it time to abandon the misery and leave?
But, who will tell this to the bud who has nothing but hope?