I was thinking about love
as I walked through the tulip field,
hundreds of blooming gravestones,
as if every color held the bitter fate
reserved for the two of us.
One the soil, one the flower,
one nourishes,
the other uses it to make itself more beautiful.
But the soil, in the end, remains;
the flower surrenders,
while the wind scatters the petals.
And something stirs within me:
perhaps just the fragility
of what remains unspoken.

Love -
a blossomed snare,
a pact never fair.
And now that everything fades,
you call it memory,
I call it wound.