Love

[junaidahmed]

There is a scent of a flower
dying in my palms,
and a page from distant history
like a heart ripped from someone's chest
bled onto the parchment
as a gift to their beloved.

I am none the wiser
as a passerby of their grief
I note only their silence and make do
with that of my own,
understanding can only go so far.

Now my hands reek of a rotten floral,
a metaphor only fit for love
that had been sought without its will.

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