turning tables
now you're the one
left in the midst
of the depth
& the dark
like a scorned yet
desirous lover
frantically picking at
flower petals

"he loves me"

"he loves me not"

by the time you've reached
that last pluck
you've become so unsure
of a heart's
folly
that you toss the
tortured daisies
& reach in the grass
to start
anew