A lighter in hand.
A candle in the other.
A field of flowers before you, one that you have yet to discover.
Strike the match.
Light the candle.
Light this flawless flower up.
Burn each petal.
He loves me.
He loves me not.
Remaining silent amongst flowers of many kinds.
But only one would shine differently in your eyes.
Take that lighter,
Run the flame along your porcelain skin.
Let it burn.
Hold it tight.
Move your hand, and to your own sight.
You see three words that a flower as such could never say.
A mere I love you, can really go a long way.
