roses

roses were not my thing
and somehow he already knew
from the very beginning,
because one September morning
as the sun arrived to greet me
“good morning”
so did he,
with an abundance of handpicked daisies
and a breathtaking “hello”
with that smile, seemingly genuine,
so believably true, like the daisies.

but he left the next month,
leaving me with a vase of shriveling sadness.

roses were not my thing
but somehow you never really knew
because one February morning
the morning sky blazing with a vibrant tangerine hue,
you arrived at my doorstep
with a bouquet of tired-looking roses
and i recall wondering why
so you insisted that they were
beautiful, like me.
but to me, they weren’t beautiful at all
just a cliché mess of mediocrity,
the furthest away from beautiful
and so was I.

but you never left my side,
and with time they grew out of their vase
and into my heart.

memory

lurking impatiently in the crevices of your mind,
i nudge you and beg your soul to reminisce.
you are afraid of the ache i bring you,
but yet you crave the twinge.
i am but a burst of pure nostalgia,
an irreplaceable, bittersweet remembrance.
like a relentless ghost, i haunt you,
reminding you of your expired bygone days.
you desire only the blissful pieces of me,
too remorseful to revisit the hurt you once felt.
and i am both agonizing and delightful,
a menagerie of melancholy pain and
immense commotion.