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
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?