you admire the flowers without knowing their names. you are so accustomed to glancing at a pretty bloom, acknowledging its smooth petals, then going your merry way.

you pick them without regard, without constraint. you savor its sweet perfume for a day then toss it out the next. the vases in your house are simply motels, each room waiting to be filled.

do you not care of what happens to the roses and tulips and daffodils and petunias? if only you had bothered to learn their names.

perhaps then you would realize how blossoms wilt once they are plucked.

( but you already knew that, didn’t you? )


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