if i had a flower for each time i thought of you

Neruda wrote something about

'eternity and flowers blossoming'

and even though I love you,

the roses in my bed wither long before your coming.

​

I hate how much you love me

and how I let you down again

while you keep pretending to forgive me

and my futile efforts, in vain.

​

Oh how I hate how much you love me

Because the truth is, I don't deserve it,

'the 1' you like to call me,

while I am the farthest thing from perfect

​

yet i try and resurrect my lost essence,

write a letter to the clouds in the sky;

try and write about your affinity

but my craft is a lie

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