How to Love A Flower by Erin Anastasia Lyrics
"How to Love A Flower"
It was on his way home from school that he first saw her.
Tulip.
She had the most elegant posture,
and the perfect amount of hot pink sass
he asked, “Girl, how do you stand so tall like that?
Can I take you home?
Love you in secret spaces when we’re all alone?
Place you in a crystal vase on my kitchen table
so you can look so pretty, but just for me?”
Her proud head nodded
what he thought was a yes
and continued to nod
long after she was stripped of her leaves and
slipped into his long narrow vase
and when she grew tired of nodding
she bowed her face
and when she grew tired of bowing
she withered away
and when she was only dust
resting at the bottom of his expectations,
He buried the broken vase out back by the shed,
shed off the layers of guilt
until he could love again
and when he did
her name was Daisy
and Daisy, talked too fast
and loved even faster.
She always wore white
and other girls swore she wasn’t a virgin
but no one ever had the guts to ask her.
and when her father fled west
after the teachers got word of what he did to her
things got, a bit darker.
and her white petals
began to curl,
started to brown at the edges.
And when she closed
she said, “I’m ruined.
so please, don’t try and love me.”
But he tried.
He used his rough fingertips
to pry her petals open
to see the story which she wasn’t yet ready to tell.
“You can be happy,” he said.
“See? My love can make you happy.
Please, you were so beautiful,
when you were open.”
but all his desperate efforts
only resulted
in a handful of petals
all of which he had broken.
That night, the wind took her
to the town across the river,
and it’s been three years
since they’ve last spoken.
And it’s been three years,
since he’s last loved.
That was,
until the winter melted
into lush green lawns
and he took a walk
down to the airy park
where a girl happened to be sitting
on a patch of the greenest grass.
She had endless layers like pages
to a good book
which he would never ever
try to pry open.
Her name was Rose.
And when he saw her roots
he knew she belonged to no one but the earth
and when he saw her thorns
he knew her neck would never know the pain of a crisp *snap*.
and that she would never stand shaking as decoration in somebody else's home,
No.
There would be no plucked petals like, “Does she love me? Does she love me not?”
because this love
was not up to him,
nor was it up to her,
but it was up to them,
if they would wait in patience and admiration of each others' blossoming
if they would hold each other to not to possess, but to protect.
If they would sit in the summer air's warm silent breath,
with soft petals and palms
faced up toward the sun
her saying thank you,
for this moment of love,
him saying thank you
for the most beautiful flower
that ever was.
It was on his way home from school that he first saw her.
Tulip.
She had the most elegant posture,
and the perfect amount of hot pink sass
he asked, “Girl, how do you stand so tall like that?
Can I take you home?
Love you in secret spaces when we’re all alone?
Place you in a crystal vase on my kitchen table
so you can look so pretty, but just for me?”
Her proud head nodded
what he thought was a yes
and continued to nod
long after she was stripped of her leaves and
slipped into his long narrow vase
and when she grew tired of nodding
she bowed her face
and when she grew tired of bowing
she withered away
and when she was only dust
resting at the bottom of his expectations,
He buried the broken vase out back by the shed,
shed off the layers of guilt
until he could love again
and when he did
her name was Daisy
and Daisy, talked too fast
and loved even faster.
She always wore white
and other girls swore she wasn’t a virgin
but no one ever had the guts to ask her.
and when her father fled west
after the teachers got word of what he did to her
things got, a bit darker.
and her white petals
began to curl,
started to brown at the edges.
And when she closed
she said, “I’m ruined.
so please, don’t try and love me.”
But he tried.
He used his rough fingertips
to pry her petals open
to see the story which she wasn’t yet ready to tell.
“You can be happy,” he said.
“See? My love can make you happy.
Please, you were so beautiful,
when you were open.”
but all his desperate efforts
only resulted
in a handful of petals
all of which he had broken.
That night, the wind took her
to the town across the river,
and it’s been three years
since they’ve last spoken.
And it’s been three years,
since he’s last loved.
That was,
until the winter melted
into lush green lawns
and he took a walk
down to the airy park
where a girl happened to be sitting
on a patch of the greenest grass.
She had endless layers like pages
to a good book
which he would never ever
try to pry open.
Her name was Rose.
And when he saw her roots
he knew she belonged to no one but the earth
and when he saw her thorns
he knew her neck would never know the pain of a crisp *snap*.
and that she would never stand shaking as decoration in somebody else's home,
No.
There would be no plucked petals like, “Does she love me? Does she love me not?”
because this love
was not up to him,
nor was it up to her,
but it was up to them,
if they would wait in patience and admiration of each others' blossoming
if they would hold each other to not to possess, but to protect.
If they would sit in the summer air's warm silent breath,
with soft petals and palms
faced up toward the sun
her saying thank you,
for this moment of love,
him saying thank you
for the most beautiful flower
that ever was.