She walked through her life with her palms slightly open.
as if expecting something that never quite arrived.
Not a gift but a recognition.
Somewhere between dreams and daylight she held space for soft stems and velvet promises...
for bouquets made not of apology
but of understanding so rare it could have been fragrance.
They should have come with quiet hands and reverence,
each bloom a testament to how she felt without trying :
rose-breathed, moon-spun, the sigh before thunder breaks.
But none arrived. Not in spring. Not even in sorrow.
And still she bloomed.
She carried petals in her voice,
lavender in her glances, tenderness in her tremble.
She was the florist of her own ache, arranging silences into poems,
no one else could name.
There were days she whispered to the sky as if love were watching :
"I would have placed them in water, sung to them, called them mine…"
But the world is too careless with the sacred.
They forgot that some hearts deserve to be adorned.
So she became the garden.
The vase. The gift. The fragrance that lingered long after footsteps left.
And somewhere in a dream, a skyful maze cracked open...
and the flowers she never received began to remember the hands they were meant for.
They began to bloom again.
For her.
Only for her.