"Now, we can celebrate my birthday. Just the two of us."

"Tell me what you did this morning while I was busy thinking about you every moment in class." Tom asked.

"I attempted writing poetry. I'll show them to you once I've rewritten them."

"Give me the idea."

"It's about flowers."

"I thought you hated flowers," he suggested.

"Only on occasion. I love flowers especially when they come from you. But I love your paintings more than the roses. They give me a feeling of satiety. Only to be viewed again and again. . . Just like poems, they are perceived but they are inexhaustible. Flowers, however, wither with time."