I planted them for us and now I smell them everywhere. I plucked them tonight from unsuspecting neighbors and they fight me with the effort, these ridiculously small blossoms in an even smaller glass. Do they even comprehend their legacy?
These delicate footsteps, the intoxicating scent that takes me to unmentionable places. I hate nostalgia. I hate the scent of these flowers. I hate that I love them too. I hate even more that you won't remember, that maybe you don't even care. These flimsy white petals will wilt in the morning and the realization stabs me to my core. You are these flowers. You bloom spectacularly but only in the right conditions. Bloom profusely, abundant with an overwhelming inviting scent and yet wilt so easily.
R.E.M - Endgame