What would the residual flower feel,

Seeing all the departures,

One by one,

Picked,

Chosen,

Loved,

Seeing eyes glancing at them,

But not long enough,

Not fond enough

To forge the bond of hearts

Seeing the vitality of day dims along with that of theirs,

Door locked,

Empty racks,

Dark room,

Loud silence?

Sitting in the middle of the florist's,

Would they feel scared?

Aggrieved?

Glum?

Inferior?

Or just

Alone?