let my love
be a daisy;
the flower
sat on
through the
pages of
my book.
my story.
the daisy
spent
hours,
days,
years,
binded
on it.
then the
flower,
began to
wither.
the scent,
the shade,
—paled.
gloom
lingers through
thin air.
i got tired of
writing.
every word,
each letter,
of my story
make no sense
anymore
—all i could
think of was
the daisy's
fragrance.
and then,
a moment came,
i slept on my
table,
my head on
top of
crossed arms,
it was a mess,
a glare of light
from the sun
woke me
up.
i breathed.
air filled my nose.
so as the scent of
the pages of my book.
my story.
it was the same
as the daisy's
fragrance.
the joy,
excitement,
i felt it all
again.
the daisy's
never gone,
the scent,
the memories,
it was a part
of the book,
the story.
love is
a piece
of me.
and so
as you.
that day,
i wrote
your name.
your name
made the
best story
of my
life.
—daisies withered.
