I picked a flower for you and I put it in the pocket of my jacket and continued walking. I went home and hung it up and forgot about it. Sometimes, I'll suddenly remember it, like now, but I'll never unzip it and take it out, even if I wear the jacket. I'm afraid it'll be dead. In fact, I know it is. But I know I'll be disappointed when I look at it and see the once light purple turned to a dead burgundy. And I hate the feeling of disappointment. Especially when I feel disappointed in myself. Because I never gave it to you. I just let it die.
There's an impending death at the back of my head. It's eminent, one way or another. Whether it is by my hand, or another's, or life's. My own blood is on my hands... It used to be literal, but now it's metaphorical. If I end up doing what I once planned, it'll yet again be literal.
I feel guilty for letting the flower die. For not giving it to you.
But mainly I feel guilty for picking it.
For even thinking you'd want it in the first place.
For telling you how I feel.
For feeling.
YOU ARE READING
The Swallows and the Sunsets
PoetryI tend to find meanings in things not intended to have one.
