Writer's own thoughts!

  In the eyes of the beholder, dried flowers are beautiful— their colors muted, Their edges curled like whispered secrets. Fresh flowers shout for attention, Bold in their blush, Tempting every glance with fleeting sweetness. The opportunists reach for them, Hands quick to scratch, hearts unsteady, Dazzled by perfume and flash. But the connoisseurs linger— they see the poetry in fading, The strength in stems that have endured timestamps, storms and rhythms of life. The wisdom written in petals turned bronze and gold. They know that true beauty does not need applause, That elegance grows with patience, That composure is found in subtle decay. While fresh blooms bow to the sun, Dried flowers hold the moon, Quietly sovereign, Speaking only to those who can listen, Revealing a taste refined, A love that does not chase, But understands. The connoisseur knows the art of love,  She doesn’t seek obedience.  What she seeks is valuation in a dignified bounds....  She values wh...

After losing you, I learned how silence can grow teeth— How it can bite through a childhood and leave no visible wound. After losing you, The house became a hallway of echoes, Your voice folded into absence, A door that never opened again. A mug of coffee half sipped,  An envelop of tender letters unzipped,  Codes of silent words undrafted,  Poems of regrets unwritten, A silhouette kept unwoven,  A heart left ingrafted,  An iceberg remains on top of the mountain intact - unaffected.  And, here you invaded in my life like an infection.... Lost in spiral of affection and detachment.  After losing you, love arrived like a promise and left like a lesson— Too quickly, too quietly, Taking parts of me I didn’t yet know how to name. And there were other losses No one writes elegies for— The body no longer mine in the way it once was, Trust slipping like water through unready hands, A girlhood interrupted mid-sentence. I grew into a control freak now.... T...