He loves me.
The single yellow petal falls like I fell for you.

He loves me not.
Another drops to the ground like my heart did when you forgot to call.

He loves me.
The softness of the flower reminds me of your kiss that night under the stars.

He loves me not.
The inaudible sound of the section being ripped from it’s origin almost sounds like my heart did when I realized you deserved more.

He loves me.
The easiness of pulling the petal resembles how easy it was to fall in love with you.

He loves me not.
The small scar in the top corner of the delicate foliole disenchants the image like the ones on my wrist did to the way you looked at me.

He loves me.
I grab on to this last petal like I grabbed on to that last, “I love you.”

He loves me not.
This tattered, empty skeleton of something once breathtaking will never truly be able to convey the hollowness of my being when I lost you.


He loves me not.