She didn’t like my words,
my prose, it seems
so tore the letters into tiny pieces,
she did,
Throwing them to the breeze, changing into
the blackest of butterfly wings,
darkening the sky with rain, her tears fell down
upon her, when she saw
what she had done….
I took my pen, and licked it thus
and wrote upon a piece of meadow paper, with the birch
birds singing, while the waters rumbled in
the background, and gave me new hope,
I tore the pages so, with lovingly edges
not torn in anger, nor wanting the same,
the pieces drifted and fell upon the earth,
the place where we once held each other,
close
The pages sprouted flowers, everywhere I had
written Love,
and where I dotted the i-s and crossed all the
t-s, the rivulets ran
and nourished the beauty
and enticed you back
in the hope that I, that you, that we
That we,
And we sat down gently,
so as not to disturb, the prose that told stories,
of what we would do,
and where we would go,
and how it would be, writing
and we lay down on the meadow pages,
and listened to the words, blooming
the ones that were most special
My flower words to you….
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