Your love is like receiving flowers in the evening,

A solace after a rough day at work,

Fresh scents that remind me of the things I cannot control,

It’s living, believing, in the evening.

Your love is like the sight of flowers in the evening,

I am not a fan of red roses,

Like passion and lust they’re cliche,

They’re like empty promises, appealing, way too enticing but never actualized.

No, your love is like an assortment of flowers,

Wild, spicy, pretty, bland, bright, dull, ever present…

It’s living, believing and it comes in the evening.

Your love is like quiet smell of the evening,

A reminder that everything is fleeting,

And everything can be deceiving.

Your love is the evening,

It envelops me into submission when I am exhausted,

It takes when I am still,

It gives when I am famished,

As silent as the night, as loud as the fears that come alive,

Your love is not like, never has been like, rather it is the evening.

So, Stardust, are those flowers you sent in the evening, just for me?