It was as if the very sunshine that caressed it had managed to sprout out from it. One could not resist to wonder if it smelled like the sunshine too.
He was hypnotised as if he were yellow and striped with black. It seemed to giggle at him as it arched with the breeze. After he plucked it, he wanted to tickle it. He ran his finger on the edges, inside the edges and over the edges. All the time holding it as gently as it itself was – a blob of mist that could anytime pop.
The initial urge to explore faded with the fading hues of the goblet. And soon the petals resembled the brown, gooey something at the bottom of a dustbin. The perfume was all smeared onto his rough fingers.
He tossed it away to its own fate, to look for a flower still fresh.