not a love letter

If two people can create a connection in the first 30 seconds, then you know I saw you. Came forward with a handshake and I was pleased because I hadn’t moved an inch, it was all you. Not sure how many hands I’ve shaken, but the last one moved too far in the wrong direction. Yet, if nothing’s bad, then the good would be gone too.

There’s this flower on the side of the road. I don’t pluck it because I don’t think I’m allowed to. Never really crosses my mind why beauty flows so well with mundane, driving past so often it’s almost as if I have to squint to notice it these days. When something stays in the peripheral for so long, it merely becomes part of the usual background. There are ounces of gold in my background.

Strange that we decide rules before they are given. Humans work well with order, rights and wrongs, what you deserve and why you are unworthy. They always told me not to pluck the flowers, never warned that the flowers may blossom in my own two hands. Wasn’t informed that what I craved, I could create.

So now it’s like I’m walking around with my hands cupped together, spilled soil trailing me like a yellow brick road. I’m not following it — it’s following me. And I’m shaking hands so those flowers that have been planted are now also pollinating. One for you, and one for you, and one for you. Meet me when your gardens have bloomed.

I drive past you on the road. And I stop, almost squint to see you. Green eyes and it’s funny because I didn’t even notice, I usually do. The traffic light switches, so I know to go — nowadays that has become, more or less, my cue.

Same color, you see.

Just a different hue.

And I don’t think of plucking those flowers anymore, don’t think I need to.




Drama queen. Lover of white roses. Once forgot all forms of identification, but still made it to New York, so also a go-getter.

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Annika Dasani

Annika Dasani

Drama queen. Lover of white roses. Once forgot all forms of identification, but still made it to New York, so also a go-getter.

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