To be loved means to be dead

To be loved means to be dead— Only then do the flowers dream for me, Their petals embroidered with the magic of compassion, Their fragrance, a heavy incantation of regrets, floating on the wings of time. To be loved means to be dead— Only then does my father's warmth envelop me, Not through touch, but through rays of liquid gold, His love, once frozen, now melted in solar hues. To be loved means to be dead— Only then do my friends remember, Calling my name with velvety voices, soaked in longing, They buried my heart while it still danced, unaware that longing is eternal. To be loved means to be dead— Only then does my mother embrace me, Her whispers tremble with the love I once invoked, But I no longer feel the weight of her arms, only the shadows of wishes. To be loved means to be dead— Only then do they come, not out of love, but from the call of destiny. Was I ever more than a cloud of story? Or just a fleeting illusion, draped in the cloak of memory, floating in their minds? To be loved means to be dead— Only then do I see infinity in his eyes, The love I once invoked now flows in silent magic. Does he whisper my name, calling me to awaken from the spell of eternal sleep? But it's too late. Too late to feel, to hold, to know. I am just a spell of memory in their minds, And they—mere creatures of the dream. Because to be loved means to be dead.