Flowers made by an Angel
It was past midnight, that quiet hour when the world grows still
and I can finally set aside the weight of the day.
But this night felt heavier. The pain inside me was sharper, carved
by a love that had ended not long ago.
I remembered the bouquet you once gave me, at my first
photography exhibition. The flowers had long since withered, yet
to me they still carried a strange kind of beauty, the trace of a
moment I couldn’t let go of. I wanted to photograph them, to hold
on to what remained.
I picked two roses. Draped a black cloth behind them. Set a light
in front. I didn’t plan the shot. I wasn’t looking for a meaning. I
only knew that creating and interpreting are never the same act.
And then something shifted.
Placed face to face, one slightly taller, their fragile forms leaning
toward each other. It wasn’t just a composition anymore, it was us.
It was the instant I looked into your eyes and fell.
I let the camera off my hands, moved closer, and sank to the floor
in front of them – in front of us. Tears blurred my sight, my voice
broke into a cry I couldn’t hold back.
The next morning, I opened the images, I had captured our first
glance, our first embrace, the future I once imagined. And I had
captured the loss too.
I loved you, truly.
And these photographs are my truth.
Thank you, Angel.
