Man Who Waited for a Bouquet
The Little Things That Matter
I went to a flower shop with him, watching as he carefully selected flowers, thoughtfully contemplating which ones to choose. After picking a few, he handed them to the florist, asking for a bouquet to be made. While waiting in the car for about 10 to 15 minutes, another man approached and asked about the price of the ready-made bouquets. At that moment, I glanced at my man—the little efforts he made, the way he chose each flower with care, and how patiently he waited for them to be arranged into a bouquet. I love him so much. God, I am beyond grateful.
About the Creator
Whispers of romance
I create. I feel. I write what lingers.
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More stories from Whispers of romance and writers in Poets and other communities.
In The Kitchen
How did I end up in the kitchen so often, making food for him, listening to his playlist that I never thought I’d be interested in? No offense, but I don’t really get the constant rapping in the songs (brb, crying). How am I so in love now? The girl I used to be never believed in love, and now look at me—I'm in the kitchen cooking for him, learning what he likes, and just adoring him for who he is. How is it that the same girl who used to avoid skincare and maintaining her image is now so focused on keeping herself in check? She’s always thinking she needs to look her best, trying to look good in front of him, as if she’s still trying to win over her crush—even though he’s her husband. The way he takes care of her, she keeps falling for him, over and over again.
By Whispers of romanceabout a year ago in Poets
Winter Up High
Upon the North, where winter holds its sway, The frigid nights descend with solemn grace, A silent, diamond dust along the way, And moonbeams carve the shadows of the place. The wind, a ghost that whispers through the pines, Doth chill the very breath that leaves the lip, The ground is bound by frosted, silver lines, And stars, like scattered jewels, their vigil keep. The long dark hours demand a sheltered rest, Where firelight dances on the hearth's warm stones, And weary souls are welcomed to the nest, To chase the biting cold from blood and bones. Yet in this chill, a stark, pure beauty lies, Reflected in the vast and endless skies.
By Vinn Black4 days ago in Poets
Comments (2)
Awww, love this for you. ♥️♥️♥️ excellent poem.
Awww, this was absolutely soooo sweet!