He didn’t just pick flowers—he listened to them.
And in their silence, they whispered back his fate.
Each line knew its direction before he did.
Because the world inside him couldn’t stay on paper.
He painted not how he looked—but how he broke.
And somehow, that made it more true.
Theo wasn’t just a brother—he was the tether.
Without him, the canvas would’ve stayed blank.
He painted the walls with hope.
And filled the rooms with yellow dreams.
The stars spun faster when he looked up.
Because they recognized one of their own.
Even in the mirror, he searched for peace.
But sometimes, reflection shows only ache.
He left without applause, but left everything behind.
And every petal still remembers his hand.
