The flower
Still smells sweet
I was sitting at my desk, commiserating with myself about the infinitesimal hardships of my life, and saw a wilted flower. I had picked it earlier, admiring it's finespun beauty and honey scent, intending to draw it in my sketchbook. I had carried it in hand, juggling books, laptop case, coffee, and a sandwich to bring it back to studio. But by the time I arrived, clear, wet bruises already spotted the white film of the petals and I was late for my next class. I dropped it hurriedly on my desktop and ran. Four hours later, I sat down again to resume my studies, and could not. My chest ached under the weight of my thoughts, and my muse refused to budge. I stared gloomily at the hard light of my computer screen, browsing Deviantart enviously and chugging Diet Snapple. Then, I noticed the poor, forgotten flower limply clinging to the corner of the desktop. I picked it up sadly, and almost threw it toward the trashcan when the motion of my arm brought its still-fragrant petals under my nose, and I stopped. I caught the memory of sunshine and honey, and turned the flower over between my paint-stained fingers. I looked at it, and it looked at me. I replaced it on the desk, a little nearer than before, so as to have some company during the long hours ahead before I sleep. Every now and again, I lift the crumpled, browning petals to my face and inhale. It still smells sweet.
