In the misty morning of a scarlet-hued day
when a tiny shop made of love is filled with more hearts
a staff who adores being a father scratches his back
a sunflower sneaking out his lousy shirt
and his daughter at home about to wake up to a flower mistaking it for the sun.
By the break of dawn, a robust physique with skin treated like a canvas of one’s art,
the biker caressed the pink carnations whilst eyeing the baby’s breaths,
a tender gaze of another Goliath waits for him by a retro motorbike
geared up to take them on a journey that will live past the last petal.
The vendor wiped the beads of sweat off his upper lips
mirroring the vibrance radiating off the girls in red
Lily stargazers cherished by their sweet squeals and twinkling lashes,
their blooming pact granted to reach cosmic wonders.
“Happy Valentine’s, Ma. Get well soon. Your acceptance alone would be the best gift.”
The customer with a freshly shaved cut stood with her shoulders hung low
while tulips that are yet to bloom blushed in her frail arms
serving as an avenue towards what home used to be.
Forty roses, all in the shade of his lady’s amber skin
a hue rarely seen in a form of a bouquet
as if the lass by the door has transfigured into flora;
devotion rarely seen in the form of a human.
It was never easy catering elderly
whose demand is a basket of all the dandelions his wife had planted
before her name was engraved into a stone that took their days together;
the bitter smell of drying flowers about to reek off the time they never get to spend.
Perhaps, we all are bilingual,
not just as locals who twist their tongue into another dialect
or those people who are a stranger to their own lingo,
but from the moment we learnt the silent song of intimacy,
flowers blossomed as another language of love.
