you take my love
when you take your leave,
leaving it by your doorstep
so you could get yourself in the house
before the weather got fickle,
forgetting it there when
you'd turn in
under warm covers.

it spent so many nights
getting rained on
despite my best advice,
in hopes that you
would find it in the morning,
see it for its sun and flowers,
and want it to be
your daily reminder
of what the rest of your Springs
could feel like.

and I never had it in me
to disappoint my love
by telling it
to just come home,
knowing it would spend
the night fidgeting between
those four chambers
to forget that it was alone.

but that poor thing,
how tired it would get by daybreak,
pulling the petals from its daisies
with eyes swollen with their own rain,
blubbering about how all it wanted
was to tickle the hairs on your chest
until the strange and new
felt warm and safe to you,
and how it wished
trying this much
didn't make it feel so pitiful.

because my love knew
whatever it felt, it shared with me;
and though its judgment was better
than to sleep on wet bricks
until it got itself sick,
it was just hoping to bring me back
something beautiful,
it didn't mean
for me to get hurt.