The Elegy of Petals

The Flowers die first. Inspired by when you'd once told me you would gift me a rose for every day we lived and aged, when you are an old man but still falling in love with me every day much more deeply.

They always told us

that men are like leaves,

ripening with the years,

turning deeper, darker, richer with time.

They grow stronger in the face of storms,

cling stubbornly to the branches of life

until even winter respects their weight.

A man in his autumn is a man in his prime,

and the world calls him seasoned, powerful, wise —

his laugh lines not decay, but medals.

And women?

We are flowers.

Beautiful, fragile, temporary.

Meant to bloom brilliantly, then die quietly.

Praised for our color, our fragrance,

our ability to soften a room with our presence.

But always, always with an expiration date

carved into the marrow of our bones.

We are admired in spring,

plucked in summer,

discarded in autumn,

forgotten by winter.

And yet —

a flower in her prime dazzles the world,

even if she is only ever wanted, never truly loved.

She lives her brief, blinding moment

when all eyes turn to her,

when hearts ache for her softness,

her color, her scent —

and she leaves a mark so vivid

it bleeds into memory.

We all yearn for one soul

who would gather the decayed petals

when the bloom is long gone,

who would find them just as beautiful with age,

irreplaceable —

because even if all flowers of the species

look the same to careless eyes,

each has a different story,

each pollinated by a different bee,

each with roots that stretch to depths

no one else has ever seen.

We are the ones

who mark love’s arrival at weddings,

who become offerings for lovers

declaring devotion in trembling hands,

who line caskets

and comfort the dead

when everyone else has left the room.

And no one ever tells you

how leaves may become more valued as they age,

how their veins grow darker,

their bodies tougher —

but one day, they too grow brown and crisp,

and no one notices.

No one mourns a fallen leaf.

But the absence of a flower

can haunt a room for years,

because beauty that dies too soon

leaves the deepest ache.

Let them keep their leaves.

Let them grow darker, heavier,

let them pretend that time crowns them

instead of burying them beneath it.

I will be the flower

that haunts the corners of their memory,

the ghost of perfume that lingers

in rooms where no one speaks my name,

the memory of color

that outshines the leaves they cherished.

And when the last leaf falls,

they will search for us

in the cold, empty wind,

and we will be long gone.

© 2025 Inaba Tarek