Bloom

I placed a wilting flower on a cracked toilet—not to beautify, but to ask what survives in the wrong place. The silence said more than the flower could. Sometimes, beauty isn’t in what blooms—but in what stays, quietly, where it was never meant to belong.

A cigarette butt and a few fragile flowers shared the same frame—one ending, one still holding on. Smoke rose like a final breath, and in that quiet, I saw not contrast, but conversation. Life and decay, side by side, asking no questions, offering no answers—just existing, together.