ドライフラワー

Like a dried bouquet lying between the pages of a book, this song smells of memories that should have faded long ago, but still retain their color. It contains fatigue from endless conversations that never became real dialogue, and the familiar “I'm sorry” said more to oneself than to another. Here, resentment is mixed with warmth: habits are annoying, but the voice, the face, even the awkwardness - none of it ever becomes completely foreign.

It sounds like evening light in an empty room where no one is waiting for an answer anymore. It's like trying to convince yourself that the flowers will wilt, that the pain will pass, that the name will stop echoing inside - but for now, it still whispers like a scent that hasn't faded from an old scarf. The irony is that even when you let go, you still hold on.