We rested beneath the willow tree,
you and I,
and I noticed the daisies in your hands.
One by one, you would pick the petals:
Pick. “He loves me.” Pick. “He loves me not.”
Over and over again.
Yeah, only an idiot would fail to
see just what you meant.
So as I sat absorbed in my journal,
writing something beautiful and
loaded with meaning that I could
give to you at some later date,
you suddenly stood up, the daisypetals flying everywhere, and you
reached your hand out for me to
grab. I stared at you for a moment,
confused, and so you yanked me
to my feet, the loose pages in my
journal flying everywhere, and it
only took a moment for me to realize
what it means to put yourself before
I don't remember what happened next.
All I remember is the look in your eyes
as that moment stopped itself from
fading in mine
and you realized it too.