I picked him a
flower
(I wanted to see his
reaction.
It would speak
volumes.)
He smiled and
I remember liking the way that flower looked
perched in his
glasses,
and the way the
pollen
coated the side of
his frames,
like spewing
reproductive fluids
was on the corner of
his brain
but not the center.
I guess it makes
sense now
that the flower was
a buttercup;
something about
yellow meaning happiness
and happiness being
with him
even though he
wasn’t big on
words. But as much
as he hid
I knew a tenderness
was there
for me to thread the
needle
of his compass and
direct him
back to my safety,
sew up
If I run fast
enough,
my feelings can’t
catch me,
But he always can.
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