I wrote an entire book
dedicated to you and the
heart you taught me to
wear on my freshly patched
sleeves day after day.
I bought myself the flowers
and picked the brightest buds
available on a lonely Thursday
because that's what I've come
to find solace in - when the words
don't have enough life of their own.
I publicized my entire story
under the guise of ranting
to you, Darling, and it worked -
people actually bought it and
continue to build up their
private collections of poetry.
I think, Bouquet, Honey,
that it's time I left you
to live a life of your own
instead of carrying you around
under my arm like a beat up
notebook with too few pages
or an idea abandoned at 3am.
