Souvenirs of love lie
strewn haphazardly across
the bed: a red dress,
picked out especially for you,
a heart-shaped stone,
the wilted lily you plucked from
a neighbor's bush when you thought
I wasn't looking.
I can't decide if I hate you
for making me believe your rotten
lemon of a heart was as full
as a pomegranate,
of if I love you,
despite.
2 comments:
Coming of age.
Different perceptions.
Very sweet.
Like it.
Right, it never ceases to amaze me how you can turn any of my overused themes into something simpler and more profound.
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