It really is philosophical
This bench by the bus stop
It's wooden planks fading to gray
Solitary in all its nostalgic glory
Ageless and
Uncomfortable in a familiar way
And I knew it wouldn't last,
I knew you couldn't stay.

But I do.
Because I share a room
With an emotional Middle Schooler
Almost as emotional as I
am, figuring out how to bloom
In a world that discards
Real flowers
Because the fake ones look nicer, last longer
But they don't remind me
of dreamy afternoons
on the bench with Yellow roses in my lap
- which you did not buy me - not that
it matters
cause we would argue
for as long as we needed
to determine happiness and colors
(and discuss how to pacify our mothers)

Because they say "Real flowers are not perfect"
I think
That's what makes them worth it
And I remember...
a stormy night
when it poured inside
and I went out into the dark
to escape the light, with you
as we shivered on the bench and
cleaned out the basements of our souls,
organized the attics of our minds.

And now I sit on the bench, with you
And we wonder
At the agony of believing that
Real flowers might be valued
If dreams were worth chasing
And love didn't cost quite so much.
Cause I can't afford
To hope for
Real flowers
But I can't bear
Not to.