a meadow sprawls, not too far from where

the world forgets to care.

wildflowers

stretch, like hope, but just like hope, they’re fading,

worn by too much sun, and tired of waiting.

a soft breeze stirs them, but they don’t sway much,

like they’ve learned not to reach for a touch

that won’t come. the sky—clouds hang like they’re stuck,

refusing to rain, just holding enough,

threatening tears that don’t ever fall.

the wildflowers whisper, but no one hears their call.

_ever felt like that?_ like you’re there,

but no one sees you—like you’re air,

blending into the background, the scenery,

a part of the landscape, fading greenery?

these flowers, they remind me of you—

of us—how we bloom where we’re planted,

but sometimes, it’s just not enough.

there’s a patch of violets, hidden in shade,

like secrets we keep, too scared to let fade,

but even in the dark, they lose their light,

petals curling inward, closing tight.

the sun can’t reach them here, and they know

just like love that can’t show it,

withers and dies, slow and unnoticed,

in a world that’s too busy, too loud, too focused

on everything else but what matters.

_we’re like that, aren’t we?_

all tangled up in our own heads,

trying to grow where the light’s not enough,

where the soil’s too dry, and everything’s rough.

we pretend it’s fine, but we’re just wildflowers

in a field that won’t care in a few hours,

or days, or weeks, when we’re gone—

when the wind blows us away, and we’re done.

the meadow’s quiet, but there’s a weight

in the stillness, like it’s too late

to save what’s been lost, to change what’s been said,

to undo the scars that still bleed red.

but there’s beauty in the broken, i guess—

in the petals that fall, in the mess

we leave behind, in the way we try

to hold on, even as we die.

_do you feel it too?_ the way everything hurts,

the way love’s just a game that we all lose first,

how we’re all just wildflowers in the end,

growing where we can, until we bend

under the weight of the world’s indifference.

but maybe that’s okay, in a way—

to be wild and free, to love and to bleed,

to live in the cracks, to be the weed

that no one wants, but still survives.

in this meadow, we’re alive—

even if it’s just for a little while,

we bloom, we fade, we fall, but we smile

through the tears, through the pain,

because love, like wildflowers, is never in vain.