Even the Minimum is Still Standard

("for those who mistake tenderness for transcendence")

It went like this:

They picked a flower from a park tree

and gave it to him

a gesture delicate enough to feel like meaning.

a small, trembling thing.

They kissed under the branches,

and for a moment,

they both believed in beginnings.

immortalized a script they didn’t write

but knew by heart.

like the script demanded.

Later, they texted: 

"I need to be the best for you. I need to owe you."

He replied: "You don’t owe me anything."

(But both of them knew love keeps its own quiet receipts.)

She cried when he said he just wanted her

—unchanged, unpolished—

As if being seen could undo the ache

of never feeling enough.

"What do you want from me?" she asked,

and he said all the right things,

the ones from the handbook of

soft boys and second chances:

"Be happy. Let me care for you. Love yourself."

Words so warm they felt borrowed.

Words so warm they evaporated.

Words that anyone else

could’ve said

just as sweetly.

Because here’s the thing:

Even the sweetest clichés are still clichés.

Even the most tender moments,

when too easy

become replaceable.

And if it’s replaceable,

it was never rare.

The flower wilts.

The photos blur.

The "I’ll always be here" hangs in the air

like a question neither can answer.

—But Christ, they’ll try.

because even borrowed comfort

feels like love

when you’re afraid to be alone.