We pretend that we aren’t swayed,
but we still stay in awe of the twenty four hour magic,
the way everybody smiles just a little bit more,
the electric in our fingertips,
as we hold hands,
(just in case we get lost, definitely NOT because we are in love),
we go about the day,
slightly sailing through the air.
You gave me a single crimson rose,
while I signed my soul into seventy seven books,
from my book fair booth,
but still looking up every few seconds,
to check you were still cutting back in line,
to get my attention.
Just a single crimson rose.
You are a waste of my time,
and a waste of my words,
or so I told myself,
as I signed my last book,
making it out to the waste I loved most in the world,
I singed my soul,
in black ink,
branded on the book I wish I didn’t write about you.
As night fell,
the day dancing down the street,
and out of sight,
you were still in line, all alone,
with your single crimson red rose,
not seeming to understand why it wasn’t enough,
for a girl who gave a gift,
that would last forever.
You held the sharp stem in your hands,
so tightly that you bled,
crawling onto the table of the booth,
under the soft, spring moon,
to declare to the town,
(that didn’t really care),
that you would grow me a garden of roses,
if I would stay and watch you grow.
I watered you,
from my eyes.