You said you liked flowers, how they communicated romance and so much more.
I thought them to be cruelly transient and utterly extravagant. A stark reminder of things never meant to stand the passage of the ages.
You said I was romantically mute, sentimentally coarse, having denied myself the language of love.
I said I didn't need to defend myself here, because my love speaks in heartfelt strokes of gaze, touch and dependence. A munificent outpouring no flower could ever rival with its weak stem and brittle petals.
You said you were not privy to those gifts because I do not give them easily.
I asked if you wanted them, because an unfired arrow never hits its target, and asking never hurt anyone.
You said nothing.
Were you afraid of asking, or were you uninterested, I could never tell. To break the silence, I asked about your favorite flowers, about their appeal, their poetic connotations.
You told me that such choices are usually situational and quite frivolous, something a person like me could never understand without being oh-so-cynical about it.
I said I'll try.
For now, you said you're like a Camellia, the silent blossom of tea. Scentless, pining, and slightly sad.
Why should you feel that way, I asked.
You said it's because you could never replace that Hydrangea in my heart. A flower that draws its beauty from the soils around it. Acidic soils produce a blue hue, while alkaline soils produce vibrant pink and purple petals. When the soils are neutral, creamy white garlands crown the stalks. Always changing to suit the seasons, always exuberant, always beautiful. It was something you could never aspire to, not even for me, because that would break the stem of your soul. This was why you're always slightly sad and hopeful like the Camellia, you told me.
And then it was my turn to stay silent.
I thought them to be cruelly transient and utterly extravagant. A stark reminder of things never meant to stand the passage of the ages.
You said I was romantically mute, sentimentally coarse, having denied myself the language of love.
I said I didn't need to defend myself here, because my love speaks in heartfelt strokes of gaze, touch and dependence. A munificent outpouring no flower could ever rival with its weak stem and brittle petals.
You said you were not privy to those gifts because I do not give them easily.
I asked if you wanted them, because an unfired arrow never hits its target, and asking never hurt anyone.
You said nothing.
Were you afraid of asking, or were you uninterested, I could never tell. To break the silence, I asked about your favorite flowers, about their appeal, their poetic connotations.
You told me that such choices are usually situational and quite frivolous, something a person like me could never understand without being oh-so-cynical about it.
I said I'll try.
For now, you said you're like a Camellia, the silent blossom of tea. Scentless, pining, and slightly sad.
Why should you feel that way, I asked.
You said it's because you could never replace that Hydrangea in my heart. A flower that draws its beauty from the soils around it. Acidic soils produce a blue hue, while alkaline soils produce vibrant pink and purple petals. When the soils are neutral, creamy white garlands crown the stalks. Always changing to suit the seasons, always exuberant, always beautiful. It was something you could never aspire to, not even for me, because that would break the stem of your soul. This was why you're always slightly sad and hopeful like the Camellia, you told me.
And then it was my turn to stay silent.
