He loves me,
he loves me not,
he loves me,
he loves me not.

Does it really matter
when all the petals are on the ground?
They were pretty once.
They were soft on uncalloused fingertips.
They teased with a brilliant gaze before
I had to look away.
They left a slight perfume on my pillow on the way to the ground,
the things of beer and cigarettes
that are magical in the night
and mostly rise out of wet hair in the shower yet
always remind, always remind.
A touch of melancholy and a punch of memory,
right in the stomach where you never thought
petals could reach.
But they do, always do.

A couple petals fall and
it's a shame but there's nearly
a whole flower left.
Another falls and did I do the pulling or
did he or maybe it was never there.
One more and the emptiness
is full in its symmetry.
Focus on the foreground
and the holes don't go very far.
Another and another
until it comes full circle and I think He Loves Me Not
but then everything shakes away,
and I hear the echo of that last petal falling,
he loves you he loves you he loves you.

But he is gone
because I am
gone and the petals had to
fall.

A few half-brave
steps from the petals, a hand still
holds the wilting stem.
Proof it had been real once, proof
a centerpiece doesn’t bloom.
No thorns; just
bristles that leave
a rash on my cheek, my hand,
pink dots that won’t wash away with the smoke.

Maybe
tendons will take courage and loosen my grip.
Maybe chipped nail polish will glint
off light behind clouds
as my palm opens to the sky and fingers uncurl.
Maybe the stem will become heavy,
unbalancing the scales, tipping
fingertips to the earth.
Hesitating maybe,
the stem will roll slowly
down my palm, gravity overpowering
the bumps and
fingerprints.
Releasing identity, maybe it will
exhale

and drop.