Strange how we decorate our pain with peonies and our suffering with daffodils.
A bouquet for your sacrifice. And a rose garden for your breaking, beating heart.
Tell me when did you realize that pain and beauty were synonymous with forgiveness and love.
Take my heart and hold it close to yours. Wrap it in your finest piece of fabric and place it on your highest shelf.
Tell me that pain is beautiful, and my suffering is for my personal happiness. Paint me pictures of mirth and merrymaking.
Of a future that I can make believe. If you’ll tell me you love me.
Do it on a warm summer’s day when the peonies are in bloom and the dandelions have made their wishes known.
Give me sweet tulips and a bouquet of forever, wrapped in small pieces of who we were before the world knew our true names.
Jona Nightingale 