when love does not want to interfere, it becomes mute.
it exists, yet is unpronounced, unfulfilled an unfinished, as love can find its fullness only in the unity with the other it is directed at.
such love dies – as a plant that has been cut in two. or sprouts into strange and bizarre things – as a plant cutting that has been left unattended.
and then it is hard to say – whether it existed or not, or was it love at all.
when i see cut flowers, i think of love that dies like a plant, cut in two.