You’re not the type to put flowers in your hair, so you plant them on your skin—you plant them on my grave.
Why do you adore the red lilies so much?
Do they whisper the consolations you think you need to keep going?
Or do they manage to make your dead heart feel something—anything—even if it’s blue?
Yes, dead—as much as I am, at least.
Oh… could it be…
The red lilies remind you of me?
U