Here I am again
In a cycle of guessing game
"He loves me. He loves me not" I say
as I rip a flower apart
petal by petal
until it is no more.

I do this
not because I want to
but because I can.

It's the closest thing I have
to an answer.
I ask a flower
every now and then.
I pray for answers
but no one ever responds.

He loves me. He loves me not.
Over and over
like a religious mantra
like an entrancing spell
like a prayer
like a song
like a sonata in a silent night

I reach the last few petals.
My words slur.
My breath wastes away.
I close my eyes.
And then
Slowly, I yank the petals one by one.

"He loves me."
"He loves me not."
"He loves me."
"He loves me not."
"He loves me."
I smile.

But I realized,
There is one last petal left hanging,
almost wilted.
I know what it means.

"He loves me not."
I bow my head
as if to say a prayer

I close my eyes.
I breathe
I smell what's left of the flower

A fragile stem
Weak leaves
Hard thorns.

I let go.