Daisy

There was a time
when love fit between my fingers.
When I believed in flowers
and the answers they whispered
as petals fell,
one by one,
like soft little promises.

Love me.
Love me not.
Love me…

A daisy could hold the weight of a whole heart,
back then.
Its white crown
a little oracle in the hands of a child
who hadn’t yet been broken
by silence,
by the in-between.

I would sit in the grass,
knees scraped,
sunlight on my face,
asking the world for a sign —
as if a petal could predict forever.

Now I walk past daisies
and almost don’t look.
Almost.

But something in me remembers…

And I think of how simple it was,
to ask a flower
what I now ask in silence.

Love me…
Love me not…