Flower

They say that if you love a flower, you should not pick it up. That you should admire it from afar and let it be. They say that if you pick it up to keep it for your own, it will die.

I’m drawn to the stillness of him. The quiet contemplation, his being him. He exists and that’s all he asks for. What an attractive quality. I’m worried though, that if I touched him, he’d burn.

“If you love a flower, don’t pick it up.”

I feel like I’d become a scar on his body. Behind his ear or in the crease between his groin and leg.

“Because if you pick it up, it dies and it ceases to be what you love.”

I don’t like the idea that my love for something – my selfish need for it to be mine –  could be the cause of death for something beautiful.

“So if you love a flower, let it be.”

I wish that someone felt like I’d cause them to burn. I wish that someone felt they needed it to keep from the cold. I wish that someone wanted to walk into that fire.

“Love is not about possession”.

I hope that when he sees the burn, he realises it’s been there all along.

“Love is about appreciation”.

If only the fire caused a mark and not a cancer. Maybe it’s best he doesn’t see it bubbling away under his skin.

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