He tears petals off flowers with a limp wrist,
hoping one day he'll hope for something more than just another tryst.
But his hope, like his desire, is lethargic.

He wastes no pennies on a wish.

He's convinced a seed was sown long ago,
when he let a stray emotion get the better of him.
But he's never let the water touch the soil since,
for fear of what would grow.

He resists having to tend a garden born from a whim.

Just a snake wearing a farmer's skin.
Too distracted by his own hiss to hear the promise of kisses.
He pinches his pennies with off-green thumbs held close to his chest,
and he wastes none on wishes.