From a garden, it was cut while in its prime. Moved to a vase with a little water. At first, it stood proud—vibrant, full of life—not asking, but accepting its role. But time has its way. Slowly, the petals began curling inward, the edges drying and splitting. The center sagged slightly. Not enough to notice at first, but enough to begin the end.
Most would’ve tossed it by now. It’s what we do—dispose of what no longer holds its shape. But something about the crack in the center, the way the colors didn’t fade but deepened… its overall form distorted into something less perfect, but somehow more like myself. It wasn’t dying so much as turning a page.
This wasn’t the moment it was grown for. It was the moment just before being forgotten. And in that in-between space—after beauty, before disposal—it asked to be seen one last time. Not as it was, but as it had become.
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