I could go on.

Lillies are so beautiful and smell so sweet, but never sickly. Nevertheless, they leave a trail of pollen in their wake, always. Bulbous and plain on the outside. Opening up to reveal tender petals, a tender core, messy stamen. Rubbing off and leaving themselves behind on your fingers, and yet what would a lily be without its pollen? Lillies sing to me. More modest than a sunflower, more outgoing than a rose. Their petals extend outwards into the silhouette of a star. A star, grounded from its home. Brought back down to earth. The closest that I will ever be to that inky warm blackness. Lillies coo to me like a mother singing a lullaby, or perhaps my lover beckoning me into a bed made of fresh, floral crisp sheets after a long day. Or perhaps how the twinkle of the dying suns up in the sky resonates with my soul? Their song like that of a siren, but maybe that is where I truly exist. My feet on the ground and my head in the clouds, my body lying amid a bed of lillies, their scent so distinctly and poetically suffocating. But suffocating isn't so bad when the alternative is simply breathing, breathing idle air that tastes of nothing.