The bouquet was in the bin. I had picked out one flower -- a light violet beguiling towards a deep purple fringe. It was the only one that had survived.
Drooping at the stem, it might have been fighting death, not giving up just yet. Had I breathed life into it as I snuggled the bunch close? (Or had I killed the rest?!) It must have been the one closest to my nose and lips as they let out warm steam that might have vapourised into the ether but left that slight fresh air on a cellophane graveyard, its noisy crinkling sound, its spotted design twisting at the edges.
This one flower I had taken three days after its arrival and put it in the vent. The idea was to later place it between the pages of a book, a squashed forlorn reminder. The book is called A Map for Lost Lovers.
Do petals have a direction, do they map out a course? Do lovers?
When I returned it was not there. It probably looked completely out of place, a stub of a flower -- adding nothing, taking away nothing.
Some things are nothings.
It is a mapless world...
"Khud apne haath se Shehzad usko kaat diya
Ke jis darakhat ki dehleez pe ashiaana tha..."