He picked her a flower,
and coated it with glass,
gave her the flower
and watched time pass.

A minute, now two,
he awaits her reply.
She apologizes now
and he wonders why.

“It’s a lovely flower,”
she said with a smile.
“But I am spoken for,”
and like a silly child

he couldn’t accept truth.
“Please tell me you jest.”
She stared at him with pity;
chin buried in his chest.

His eyes burning fresh,
turning away, he must hide.
The glass flower shatters.
It has wilted and died.