Remember when we’d pick those forget me nots?
You’d always pick the blue ones because you said the white ones were too common.
The dew drops still glistened
on each petal
like tentative tears
I’d feel the guilt at plucking this beautiful flower from the safety of its vines
plucking at my core –
But I plucked it anyway.
We’d sit on the damp grass
side by side
the blades of grass tickling the toes of our bare feet
and pluck each petal
one by one:
“She loves me, she loves me not”
And I sat beside you
Feeling the warmth of your skin
as our shoulders touched.
I wondered if you could feel
the thunderous beats of my heart
through our light contact.
Then, with the last petal left,
The “she loves me not”
Never left your lips.
You’d throw the unplucked petal to the ground
in that petulant way
I’d come to love.
I would look at the abandoned flower,
with its remaining petal, looking as lonely as I felt,
and the guilt would be replaced
By hate —
I couldn’t understand why
It would want to lie to you
and hurt you in such a way.
I’d forever remain the penultimate petal.