So I planted a flower garden, just like I always wanted darling
And I’ve sat in it every day since
Talking myself up to the white roses and making them blush because they know that they aren’t really the company I’d like to be keeping
Not really, anyway
And I feel rather terrible about it because I speak as if I’ve wallpapered the world with my words
But it’s just my own skull and your thoughts, I suppose
And I think they see right through me
Oh, they can see all my thoughts, all right
And I wish I resembled sterling silver, fixing all my failings as I go- so none could ever know all those mistakes
No one can judge a piece of duct tape-

I planted a flower garden, just like I always wanted darling
And I’ve done my best not to peek over the courtyard walls
Just to see if you’re finally coming to greet me like a stranger
But I never let my eyes wander farther than the second cobblestoned row from the top
Just to be proud of my ability not to think on you
I shouldn’t feel quite so terrible about those white roses knowing ‘cause deep down, somewhere in that same place where my love for dancing and ketchup and all of those other terrible things are, I think white roses have finally taken root as well
But it- isn’t my fault
I don’t think
Oh, but now my memory is a continuous roll of clear scotch tape that I run my fingers over always, trying to find the beginning so I can break off the pieces so nothing blends and examine them more carefully to the end
But I can’t find that teeny, tiny ridge that will show me how this all began
Do you remember- can white roses turn brown?
-I thought not
Oh, you always knew what to say but never quite how to say it
I’d take your double-edged words and be grateful for them now
Just to know if my favorite color turned brown
If my favorite thing about me will never be found

So I planted a flower garden, just like I always wanted darling
And I water it whenever I think on three-fourths of my favorite things
They don’t know your name or the name of my love
Because I empty the bitter tears concerning those things in places I never visit anymore
-The idea of producing one-fourth sour-faced and wrinkly roses makes me squirm-
I wonder
If someone gave you the stem of a daisy could you dip it in ink and draw the face of your favorite anything
I thought not
I forgot (oh, see how I am forgetting things) that you don’t have any favorite things
Dash it all (to pieces)!
I doubt that I was ever your favorite, not to say I was the least favorite
But all of this is beginning to make more sense now, I think
But, back to the most important thing
The white roses
They’re lost in that place full of things I’ve learned to despise
Or perhaps just things I’ve lost a liking for
Oh, how I despise you
Is that why I can’t find you (or the white roses)
Anywhere