There were sunflowers and roses
And bites of Sunday morning omelets,
With brief looks of love in between.
But mostly sorrys on Tuesdays,
And tears on Saturdays
And feelings of uncertainty more days than not.
There was love sprinkled between the chaos.
There had to have been.
Right?
Otherwise, how am I still writing of this?
How am I still making space for you in a space you no longer belong?