maybe if my bones fall apart and sink into the ground you’ll start to miss me. when my bones turn to dust and the rain washes my remnants away and i turn the dirt into a beautiful flower. into something prettier. maybe more delicate. something like a daisy. maybe somehow the planets would align above us and after a steady rainfall that washes away the cold winter and every memory of me and you, my flower will poke through the clean ground. the clouds will part and the sun will shine and there you will see it. in your front yard. the wet green grass and a small white flower. no longer dust on the back of your bookshelf mind but something pretty. no longer bones. no longer pricks and pokes. no longer beating around the bush not being able to say what you feel. it’s there. in front of you. no words needed. straight forward and only one thing left to do. pick me up. in a garden of beautiful things i would always pick you. and i know that daisies never did it for you. they’re too simple and small and trip over their words and you always go for the beautiful. the boldest in the crowd. so go ahead and pick it. pull the rose out of the dirt and prick your fingers on each thorn and bleed until you forget how to do anything else. but don’t come back looking to walk through pretty fields and pluck each petal off of me contemplating if you love me until your raw fingers bleed because red never did look good on me and i will never be the rose you need. my old bones created me a daisy. and that’s all i’ll ever be. and he always loves me not.