do you remember
the pictures of flowers
we drew in english class?

you probably don't.

i do.

i poured
my heart and my soul
into that flower,
that one little,
hastily-drawn
flower;
perched
on the edge of
a cliff,
wavering and unsteady,
framed by an open sky,
filled with smudged pencil marks
i was that flower

later,
when we each wrote
a few sentences about those flowers
you were the only person
to write about mine.
i wish i knew what you said
i wish i knew what you thought
of my little flower
fragile and unbalanced
on the precipice of a life
it didn't know it could have.

i am a little flower
i crave your touch
please, string together sentences
of words
of thoughts
what do you think of me?
my petals quiver,
my stem wilts,
my rools curls,

but i stay.

i cling
to my cliff of
pencil and white paper
and you stand and
peer into my world
my world of new things
my week-old world

i am a young flower
ready to bloom
ready to explore
this undeveloped world,
please, won't you
write me your words?
what do you think
of my week-old world?