AN: Happy birthday, Anna!

He loves me.

The petal

f
a
l
l
s

into the pile,

a satin sea of red.

He loves me not.

And another.

You pluck pluck pluck away,

repeating the chant like a

prayer,

each Helovesme laced with desperation

like you can breathe

(real)ity

into wishes,

while each Helovesmenot is barely a

whisper

in broken tones.

Pluck pluck pluck pluck.

Love, love not, love, love not.

He loves me.

And as the petal drifts to the ground,

you think there might be truth in the dream,

that maybe those glances Scorpius steals at you are

not your imagination.

He loves me not.

The last petal.

You crush it between your fingers,

loathing the irony that you've been

pluck pluck plucking

from a

r.o.s.e.