the cashier told me that if i really loved you i would buy you roses, but the three bundles were nine ninety nine

by whitehorse

you see, i offered her poetry
like it was a bouqet
and she took it
but it wilted

pencil never comes through clear
on a yellow pad of paper
with thin blue veins running horizontal
to conscious thought

and i thought that i was delivering
this gift, this thing to be treasured
but it got folded and put in back pockets

lost amongst reciets
of dinners she bought for me

but i still had my notepad
i still had my pen
i still had a world of words to manipulate
to say that she looked beautiful sleeping
in a thousand ways
none of them even approaching cliche
at first

but i began to repeat myself
but i began to repeat myself

and she wasnt impressed
with rhymes constructed around moments
where she undressed
and crawled into a bed
warm with expectation

and all the while i kept writing
and getting further from the truth
and i began to repeat myself
and this love that i felt was a rerun
of the love i felt last week

and each kiss felt like a device
to fill my hungry pen with ink
to think up a new way to explain
the tiny scar on your forehead
and i began to repeat myself

and i handed you my poetry
as though it were a gift
and not a burden
where with each sentence
you have to read
about a love i have for you
that only comes true when its written
when you can read it

so you pressed your hands againts my chest
and i was surprised you found a heartbeat
because its gotten so faint
these days
and i began to repeat myself

and i offered you poetry
like it was some bouqet