In the mornings,
I make a crown of daisies
to remind myself that I am in fact worth it,
fit for a queen,
the stems woven tightly together,
an unwavering reminder of the encouragement from the ones stronger than I,
yet still enduring this same hurt. 

As the day progresses,
the stems loosen,
the flowers wither,
and, similarly,
so does my belief that I matter.

In my room, there sits a massive book,
whose only job, for now is to collect dust.
But one day when we finally meet, you and I will take turns writing our story on its crumbling pages.
When we fight and my tears drip on the page as I recount each incivility and purposeful insult, the ink will smear before you can dab it away;
forever leaving proof of the raw imperfection in our story.
When we decide to go on spontaneous road trips, we will bring the book and buckle it up in the back seat;
stopping only to rest as write lyrics to the songs we sing and reminisce about the places we’ve been.
When you and I sit down and make a night of writing in it, and we spill our wine all over the floor, we won’t be afraid to mop it up with the pages because that’s a memory just the same.
Every little moment, the good, the bad, the ugly, will be recorded and remembered.
And when our story reaches its end, you and I will press our lips to the last page and share one last kiss that will forever be held and remembered, like our love, in a massive book, never touched, that just collects dust.