I’m still seeking luck
with my head down
in the grass, maybe another
four-leaf clover
will show her the hope
in our beating hearts,
because the symmetry
that connected
what’s broken apart
runs deeper than
the stubbornness in-between
all the bullsh*t mistakes
that I keep making

Her scent somehow still
hangs in the air all around,
and instead of sharpening
my blade
it’s starting to dull out
until the rest of my body
aligns with my head
that is still looking in the grass
for that clover
that could be a symbol
of two lovers
who might last

Maybe it’s only me
holding onto something
that has already slipped
through my grasp:
like grains of sand,
time is shifting
and sifting through my hands-
it doesn’t seem fair
but if there is one thing
I have learned
it is that everything is fleeting,
luck runs out, and romance
becomes a story
forgotten in the past