in the beginning,
i plucked petals
from my sunflower garden.
he loves me.
he loves me not.
he loves me.
he loves me not.
but you too started
to pluck away at yours.
she loves me.
she loves me not.
she loves me.
she loves me not.
we ran out of petals
and are left withering
as if it was autumn.
the last petals told us
"you both love not"
YOU ARE READING
she likes the color yellow
Poesiamy soul in poem form. i'm not a good poet, but i've learned to be vulnerable.
