Petals drifted through our garden, and rested on her toes.
Sprigs of rosemary waltzed in the wind
and time captured the orange peel of her hair with perfection, a memory kept hidden in the pocket of my jeans.
The air had embraced indigo violets,
their scent imprinted on the collar of the breeze.
I get to my knees and hold the stalk of a forget-me-not,
And whisper she loves me,
She loves me not.