He loves me not

He+loves+me+not

He loves me. 

The yellow colored petal drifts to the wooden floor.

He loves me not.

At the same pace as the tears dripping from my eyes.

He loves me.

The golden sun shone through the cheery blossom-clad branches; the shadow of its limbs provided cool patches from the inviting sun. The green grass was no longer clad in morning dew; it instead tickled my naked arms whenever I would move in the slightest. A single hand in mine. The cool breeze blew my blonde flyaways from my skin; they tangled with each other at the excitement of having the wind flowing through them.

He loves me not.

A cool, black and white checkered floor was planted firmly under my feet, my back pressed against a dark stained cabinet—the only thing that kept me upright. The cold bathroom floor is a turbulent change from the warm grass I once enjoyed. My hand no longer holds another; it’s running its way through my hair.

He loves me.

The water swayed around my calves, a refreshing tinge. The rocks beneath my feet were something I couldn’t help but reach down and grasp. I quickly ran out of space in my painted hands for more of my treasures; I had quickly started filling yours with rocks I couldn’t wait to display. Your only sign of hesitance was a tight-lipped smile at my childish behavior.

He loves me not.

The only free flowing water within a mile was sliding down my cheeks. The salty tears stained my face with tracks as if to taunt my being with betrayal. The soft blanket wrapped around me was the closest I thought I’d ever get to that day in the sun again. After all, even the sun gives up on shining. 

He loves me.

The calm trickle of the fountain is a welcome tranquility. The hard bench of the picnic table is reminiscent of a bathroom floor I’d be sitting upon months in the future, but, in that moment, I had no clue. The greenery that seemed to surround us was magnificent and almost seemed to be the same as your irises. Almost. Yours were a shade darker. The flower you handed me rested atop my ear while your arm simultaneously rested on top of my shoulders.

He loves me not. 

The only free flowing water within a mile was sliding down my cheeks”

Knees tucked to my chest. Head folded down. Surrounded by withering petals. The flickering kitchen light offers nothing close to the feeling of the sun against green grass. As I pluck the petals one by one from the once-blooming bud, they make virtually no sound, but I feel lighter as each one drifts to the ground. The flower slowly withered, and with it your care. As I plucked the last dying petal from its stem, I took an inhale and held it, trying to muster up the courage.

Letting go of the past, I whisper under my breath “I finally love him not” and with that, I get up from my spot on the floor, tie my hair back, and turn the kitchen light off with a click; the giver of the flower no longer deserved the time of day. I stopped giving him the spotlight of my attention.