It was the first time he had received flowers.
He neither had the need nor the desire.
He didn't even know where or how to put it.
He was but a tool, bearing marks of old repairs.
His hands were rusty, tired, and worn down
from scars and wounds that were yet to fade.
He felt misplaced, almost alien—
not like it didn't belong to him,
but more like it couldn't be, shouldn't be.