The beautiful tragedy of a flower in a cracked, glass vase
You gave me a flower, and I put it in a glass vase blessed by a crack that seemed to align perfectly with the flower’s curved stem. It sat near my window; as the sun rose, light slipped through the crack. As if the sun was trying to press through it, painting a delicate anisotropy across the stem. I loved that flower sitting in that vase.
Even when the cruelty of time began to spoil the flower’s beauty petal by petal, the sunlight continued to bless the space between the fading stem and that crack. As the drying flower turned into a fragile symbol of preservation. I would never dare move the flower nor that cracked vase from its place within the glory of the sun. Oh, how beautiful and tragic all in one breath; I wonder if the flower could understand the symbolism of flawed beauty.
You gave me a flower and I put in the vase you’d dropped. I don’t remember the pain of that vase slipping from your fingers, but I remember the guilt on your tongue when you apologized. It’d lost its purpose, and yet, out of spite, I refused to throw it out. It became a piece of trash to sit like a foreshadowing reminder of your mistake. I felt like that vase, cracked and unable to become anything but the scars along my body and you’d kiss each one as if they existed within an art form of themselves.
You gave me a rose the day you died, and I put it in that cracked vase...because I could not deny the lamenting masterpiece of a dying flower in a fractured vessel. Together they were perfect, favored by the sun itself. One day I’ll have to remove that withered rose and I’ll have to get rid of that vase without purpose, but it won’t be tomorrow.
Tomorrow, the sun will rise, and it will seek the vase and the memories it carries.