By Vijayalata Shirahattimath
He calls himself, an anthophile.
In his eyes, I’m a flower!
A lover, not of scent but of soul;
Not drawn by bright petals or fragrance,
But by the beauty in my fight and smile.
He doesn’t pluck; doesn’t claim,
Yet loves me just the same, every time.
I turned away - a thousand times,
I believed he had walked away.
I never knew - I was wrong
Until someone whispered -
“His love was never gone, only hidden.”
He watches when I look away,
He is afraid - his eyes could scream
The feelings that lips hide.
He keeps me
Like a secret, hidden yet always present.
What am I to him?
He beholds me, as if I hold some secrets.
Quiet truths the others miss -
Lost even to myself.
Am I the sunlit final flower?
Why… why me?
Still I wonder — in a garden so wide,
I’m the one he has eyed,
Is it love? Or is it a mystery?
What secret does my shade keep?
Am I the flower he dreams to find?
But, the world around him knows -
I bloom only in the gardens of shadow.
I wear the colors of goodbye.
Yet he dreams of me, though I fade
He holds me within him.
Hours pass, seasons turn,
And the world moves on -
Still, I remain in his heart,
Perhaps, more than I should.
I am an unforgettable echo in his heart.
But, I am not just a flower!
I am a mirage -
One he cannot trace,
He cannot hold.
He calls himself an anthophile.
In his eyes, I’m a flower!
But he must realize,
I am too real to forget
And too unreal to keep.
I am a bloom in a sunset garden
I was never his
And will never be his……