Noor-Ul-Ain Sahi Poet Free verse

Regret Blooms Louder

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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