Her love could not be bought,
since she spooned it out slowly,
like honey, and only to capture love
she felt certain she deserved…
whenever she felt she deserved it.
He could not give his love
because he never thought he
had any to give, nor deserve.
He’d inevitably stumble upon it,
though, lose all balance and
trip over his own two tongues.
Stinging obsessions, a constant war
of attrition, what they knew of love
could’ve fit in a spent cartridge.
And once so wounded they’d stagger
back and forth past one another,
like the flowers they most smacked of,
pink tulips that danced in the Spring wind,
wilted in Summer’s heat, always reaching,
never touching, unfinished songs
that always fell quiet long before
the sound of the shot ever reached them.
Poem No. 15 of NaPoWriMo 2016, freely written and based upon the photo prompt above from my old friend Kellie Elmore FWF. A story, a poem, a cleansing of heart and mind, like a wound before the healing can begin.