I scatter the rose petals — soft pink —
the bride will crush them with her feet.

They scent me lovely and romantic,
her priestess blessing her liminal walk to wed.

I savor their smooth, enchanting feel
as I delicately pull more from the white basket,
whispering them through my fingers.
The crushing will come soon enough
without me bruising them.

Being the flower girl is heavy work —
paving the way for hearts
to explore further facets of love.

I eat cake with my fingers,
watching the bride and groom do the same,
feeding each other.
Consummation in public.
We’ve come a long way
since witnessed fornication.

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