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You left flowers on my desk years ago.
My surprise was dwarfed
by a bittersweet dread.
We were friends, only friends,
I thought,
but this changed it all.
I awkwardly stumbled,
bumbled,
a ‘thank you, but….”
with flowers in my hand.
The happy question in your eyes
wilted into disappointment
as I tried to make it better
saying….,
…well,… I have no idea now.
What did I say?
…as I stood there,
searching
for words,
with flowers in my hand.
You smiled, saving face,
and stammered,
“We’ll still be friends.”
I nervously replied,
“Yes, …friends.”
It could have ended there,
with awkwardness
our strange, shared garden.
For how could I know
then
who you truly were?
My friend,
whose eyes
no cinema would boast
now became lost
in life’s forever forward.
But other loves grew cold.
I’d found no heart
as pure
as sure
as the one who’d given flowers
on my desk so long ago.
Sweet breezes blew
and scents
as fresh as rain
brought images of blossoms
from you once again.
You left flowers in my heart.
Though other loves I knew,
my thoughts,
my memories,
returned to you.
You left flowers in my heart.
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