I’ve been plucking petals for 7 years-

“he loves me.

he loves me not.”

but we’ve both slipped a few remaining pieces of our hearts

into the pockets of others by now.

the leftover petals float in a bubble bath

or blanket an unfamiliar bed,

making me forget,

if only for a moment,

that i loved you.

sometimes i wish i could write music

because piano keys

and guitar strings

tend to send a better message

than my midnight similes,

comparing you

to the waves

and the sand

and the seagulls.

because i could change the melody,

build a bridge,

adjust the tempo,

but my poetry

always ends the same.