An Ode to a Flower

Sometimes I write poetry about exes, even if I'm okay.

If my life were a patch of flowers,

you'd be a single daisy, standing on your own.

Autonomous, stretching beyond my powers,

without my help you had grown.

I found you one day, on a walk by myself.

I admired your beauty, and then walked away.

You'd looked like you wanted to be left by yourself,

and I couldn't conjure up any words to say.

I came back every day and visited often.

But still you shied away from my touch.

But as I persisted, I felt the walls you'd built soften,

and so I let mine respond in kind, and we had grown as such.

You were my favourite part of the garden,

more special than all the flowers around you.

And I'd say, if I may beg your pardon,

that you, without a doubt, you knew.

But eventually something happened, and I felt you start to close.

I kept visiting every day, but something had changed.

The dirt felt different under my toes,

and you had become estranged.

One day I came to visit, only to find that you had left.

There was a hole in the ground where your roots had once grown.

I didn't know what had happened, I was bereft.

I wondered if I could have fixed it, if only I had known.

I saw you the other day, flower,

you looked wilted, sad, and tired.

As if you'd forgotten that you were the one who

pulled your roots up from my soil, that you had all the power.

Gone were the petals that I had once admired.

I'm supposed to be the one with the hole,

but it seems as if you've ripped yourself in the process. 

Sometimes I wonder if things would have been different, had I shown more control.

And now that you're gone, I must confess,

I miss you more than I ever intended to.

Author's Note

I like comparing people to nature, because I have a deep connection with it.