My Crazy Flower
by @manuel78 on Manuel
View my bio on Blurt.media: https://blurt.media/c/manuel78 
story made with lyrics using Ai
LYRICS by me plus lyric generator
a million flowers under the sun but i prefer my flower no other will do
i will hug you kiss you make you smile snd laugh for as long as i can
seeing the joy in your face makes me feel alive
the way you smile laugh and blush my pretty flower
fills my day with happiness through out the entire day and night
when shes not around its not the same
but i just think of my lil flower and the joy springs back into my heart and soul
love your crazy flower
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.
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- Title: My Lil Flower
Every Sunday, Eli walked to the florist. He passed parks bursting with tulips, window boxes overflowing with petunias, gardens where roses climbed trellises in riotous color. The world was a chorus of blossoms, each shouting for attention. He admired them all with a gardener’s eye, but his heart remained unmoved. a million flowers under the sun but i prefer my flower no other will do. His flower wasn’t in a garden. She was in Apartment 3B, probably with paint in her hair and a mystery novel splayed on the floor, humming a song she’d just made up.
Her name was Cora, and she was chaos in the best sense. Where Eli was order—clean lines, quiet routines, a place for everything—Cora was a beautiful, sprawling vine. She left mugs on every surface, sang opera in the shower, and saw faces in the patterns of the plaster ceiling. She called him her “steady oak.” He called her his lil flower. Not because she was delicate, but because she was the one thing in his carefully curated world that grew wild and unpredictable, bringing impossible color into his life.
His love was not a grand, dramatic gesture. It was a daily, deliberate cultivation. i will hug you kiss you make you smile snd laugh for as long as i can. This was his silent vow, renewed each morning when he woke to find her starfished across the bed, stealing the covers. He expressed it in the coffee he brought her before her brain was fully online, in the way he’d pause his reading to listen to her latest, impassioned theory about the neighbor’s dog being a reincarnated philosopher. He’d kiss her forehead, tasting the salt of her skin after she’d danced around the living room for no reason. His greatest ambition was to be the cause of her joy.
And when he succeeded, it was everything. seeing the joy in your face makes me feel alive. It was more than happiness; it was a fundamental validation of his existence. The day he fixed her grandmother’s wobbly music box and her eyes filled not with tears, but with a sparkling, incredulous delight, he felt a surge of purpose stronger than any professional achievement. When he recounted a silly story from work, tailoring the delivery just to hear her specific, snorting laugh, his own heart would feel too large for his chest. Her joy was his sunlight.
He knew every shade of her happiness. the way you smile laugh and blush my pretty flower. He knew the small, private smile she got when she solved a problem in her painting. He knew her full-bodied, head-thrown-back laugh that erupted at terrible puns. He knew the blush that crept up her neck when he caught her looking at him with sudden, fierce tenderness. Each expression was a petal of the complex, wonderful bloom she was.
Her presence had a transformative power on the very fabric of his time. fills my day with happiness through out the entire day and night. It wasn’t that every moment was ecstatic. It was that the ordinary was imbued with a warm, golden light. Doing taxes was tolerable with her making funny faces across the table. A rainy Tuesday became an adventure because she insisted on splashing in every puddle on the walk home. The night was not an end, but a quiet space where her steady breathing beside him was the most peaceful sound in the world.
But she traveled sometimes, for her art. And her absence was a profound subtraction. when shes not around its not the same. The apartment didn’t just feel quiet; it felt hollow, as if the life had been siphoned out of it. The routines he usually cherished—the neatness, the silence—felt sterile. He’d make one cup of coffee instead of two, and the morning would feel wrong. The colors of the world seemed muted, dialed down a shade.
During these times, he had a remedy. He would close his eyes. He wouldn’t try to remember specific words or events. He would conjure the feeling of her. The memory of her laugh, the image of her concentrating with her tongue poking out, the phantom sensation of her hand in his. but i just think of my lil flower and the joy springs back into my heart and soul. It was a resilience she had taught him. Her joy was not a finite resource he accessed only in her presence; it was a wellspring she had helped him discover within himself. Thinking of her wasn’t an act of missing; it was an act of summoning the happiness she represented. It would flood back, warm and immediate, reminding him that the emptiness was temporary, that the color would return.
She came back from one such trip, a week spent at an artist’s residency. She burst through the door, laden with canvases and smelling of turpentine and open air. She was talking a mile a minute about light and landscape and a badger that had stolen her sandwich. Her hair was a mess. There was a smear of blue paint on her cheek. She dropped her bags and looked at him, really looked, and her torrent of words slowed. She saw the quiet contentment on his face, the deep, unwavering welcome in his eyes that had held the fort for her while she was gone.
She walked over and wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. “I missed my oak,” she mumbled.
He held her tightly, this wondrous, chaotic, essential creature. He kissed the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her—paint, sunshine, and home. All the words he didn’t say often—the poetic declarations, the easy compliments—they weren’t his language. His love was in the holding, in the waiting, in the daily choice to cherish her particular, wonderful wildness.
He had just one phrase for it all, a summary of his devotion to her beautiful, untamed spirit. He whispered it into her hair, a truth as simple and as deep as a root.
love your crazy flower.
And in his arms, his crazy flower bloomed, and all was right in Eli’s world.