It was dark outside as days went by quicker during October. I walked down the alleyway to my apartment after a tiring day.
A bloomed santan caught my eye. Its crimson-red color is still the same as it used to be. Similar to the red cigarette I had on my fingertips.
The flowers were plucked to reveal the thread that connects each petal to make an accessory. In my delicate hands, I crafted the luxury of purity when I had no idea what jewelry was before.
I tasted the nectar from the flower, and the surge of childhood memories came through. The nicotine in my mouth was washed away.
I had destroyed myself to start anew when I left home. Like when I separated the petal from its stem. Turns out, I am unable to craft something original. After the destruction, I yearned for the past.
I could not find the best santan to make bracelets. It was either too pale or too red. The strings of the flowers could not connect.
I am nonchalant about pain. In truth, I prolonged to acknowledge the absence to come through. I became a servant of nostalgia when I could no longer create fond memories as an adult.
I plucked each of them like I used to, a comfort to myself as I held onto my childhood memories.
Patience won, and I was left with the remnants of flowers and cigarette ash on my lap. Shredded multiple times to create a fraction of something beautiful. F