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.
