[ bloom ]
he weaved a flower on his handkerchief
the same yellow that he wears
on his luscious long hair when tied,
and calls it the braid-smile
it has always been an inexplicable affair
- between him and the flowers
as if there's some history between the two I know not of!
probably a few hundred poetries were once scattered
in a graveyard of sorts!
he asks me to cry,
like it's ok to!
like there's comfort in it,
like he knew I've been wanting to all this while
but I looked at him with eyes that needed no crying
smiling without any hesitance, he hands me over the handkerchief
and says, "Rain on it, let the flower bloom!"