Where broken flowers grow

She didn’t ask to be adored, The peony, gentle, never proud. She bloomed because the world was warm, Not to draw the longing crowd. I watched him turn, again, again, His gaze a prayer she’d never hear. While I, a rose, long past my prime, Still held my love like souvenirs. But she, the bloom he couldn’t touch, Saw me quiet, saw me there. Not as a ghost beneath his sun, But something broken—still aware. She knelt, not low, but eye to eye, And gave me words I thought had died. Not pity—no, not empty balm— But a place to breathe, a moment’s calm. We spoke not of the boy in gold, But of the storms we both had known. And in her kindness, soft and wide, I found a light that wasn’t shown. The sunflower, small, not standing tall, Reached up toward her just the same. He loved her still, in quiet ways, A heart too young to name the flame. But we—two blooms, both bruised and wise— No longer bloom to earn a name. She gave me space. I gave her truth. And though his love was never mine, I learned that friendship, too, can grow— And broken hearts can still align.