I Knew

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He handed me a flower.

It wasn’t a rose,

And it didn’t have to be because it still had power.

It spoke louder than any prose.

This little flower was more than a symbol, it was a thought.

He had thought to pick it and hand it to me.

It meant more than anything he could have bought,

And it will always be

The moment I knew

He cared.

I knew it was true:

That it was breathtaking to be loved.

That it feels glorious.

But I cannot say anything to him

I’m afraid of what he would think – good gracious!

So I pressed the flower between pages, on a whim.

And now the flower is dead and so is the chance to say

Everything that I felt.

He went on his way

And I dwelt

On my foolishness

I knew – so why didn’t I tell him I cared?

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