Of the flower

What if this flower danced before me as it does in front of everyone else, and it is only my wishful self that sees it as something specially for me, given to no one else; like an endearing gaze or mark of affection? I know this to be a trap. The heart has a way of warping things into how it wishes them to be. But ah, how enchanting, persuasive, convincing, is its dance!

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