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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Dead people get more flowers than the living because regret is stronger than gratitude— I think about that often, how the world waits for a pulse to still before it remembers it should’ve cared. I’ve seen it happen in slow motion: the sudden sanctification of a name, the rush to rewrite history with softer hands, the way strangers drape roses over a silence they never bothered to fill when it was breathing. Funny, isn’t it? How no one notices your absence until it becomes permanent. How they praise your light only after it’s gone out, as if the dark makes you holy. Dead people get more flowers— bouquets layered thick with apologies too late to matter, with love that finally found its voice when there was no one left to hear it. I wonder sometimes if the living feel that weight— if they sense the future wreaths already being woven, petal by petal, from the things no one said. I wonder if that’s why some of us walk around like ghosts-in-training, learning early how to haunt the rooms we were never truly welcomed in. Maybe that’s the tragedy: we’re all waiting to be mourned before we’re celebrated. We’re all starving for affection that only seems to bloom over a grave. Regret is louder. It shouts across time, it claws at the throat, it forces even the indifferent to tremble. Gratitude whispers. It assumes there will always be another day, another chance, another breath to say what matters. But breath is fragile. Timelines snap. Hearts fail in quiet rooms while unanswered messages glow like tiny tombstones on a screen. And then the flowers come— arms full, extravagant, perfumed confessions of everything too late. I think about this often: how simple it would be to love the living with the same urgency we reserve for the lost. How many souls would soften if someone handed them daisies not because they died— but because they stayed. How many people would feel seen if their name didn’t need a memorial to become beautiful. But this is the way of the world: we notice the cracks only when the vessel breaks. We count the blessings only after the blessing is gone. Dead people get more flowers— I suppose because regret blooms fast and wild, a frantic garden planted in the soil of too-late. Gratitude grows slower. It needs attention, presence, care. And some people only learn to love the moment love has no one left to reach.
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