Before I met you, my mind was bare—or so I thought it was.

Others’ brains were filled to the brim with works of beauty: carnations surrounding their cerebrums, bluebells wrapping around their brain stems, hydrangeas encircling their hippocampuses.

My mind was less furnished; I had only a few delicate daffodils hung on the oversized walls of my brain. Through the years, their petals withered, their scent became undetectable, and their yellow color faded. However, they never perished. They are condemned to keep my brain company for eternity; they’re my daffodils, no matter how minute they may seem.

I used to envy the fragrant flowers that others had, and I would occasionally mar my own daffodils to make room for the other, prettier flowers that I wanted.

But with you, it’s different.

When I see you, flowers fill my brain.

Your presence showers me with beautiful bouquets of brilliant roses. You pack my brain full of them until I can’t even think or see—only feel.

I used to find my daffodils inferior and embarrassing compared to the other flowers; they were ostensibly smaller than the blossoms in my friends’ minds and far less radiant than the ravishing roses you supplied me with.

But when you gift me a perfect rose, you never replace my identity-defining flowers. You don’t weed out my decaying daffodils, but instead, you water them and embrace them so that they can grow.

Your reassurance and warmth have shown me that my natural flowers are lovely—that my organic self holds enough bearings to decorate my life. Because of you, I can see that I am enough for myself.

Even so, I cherish your roses.

Their petals tickle me while I’m giggling to make me laugh harder, and when I want to cry, their stems absorb my tears and use them to heal any wilting flowers.

Each time you approach me, I can see one in your hands. You grip it tightly, but, when the time is right, you never fail to deliver it softly. I store it carefully among my other roses, and as my collection expands, my feelings for you do as well.

I wish I could tell you how much I appreciate your roses. I hope you can see in the moments we share the impact that they’ve had on me.

I receive your roses not when I expect them, but when I need them. I feel their prevalent presence when you hold my hand and when you stroke my face.

You have the power to take them back—to remove the happiness that you’ve given me. But you won’t. You would never purposefully hurt me. Your heart is sanguine. It is pure red; not a millimeter of it is tainted.

I accept your roses because they are authentic, and their thorns would never pierce me. I share with you my daffodils because you care for them as if they are your own.

I only hope that my daffodils mean as much to you as your dear roses mean to me.