A Bouquet of Dandelions
I've written quite a number of poems:
Scrawled on my scratch papers,
Mingling with pi, with x's and my y's
Some even dance with the numbers—
A romantic waltz behind equations,
The parabolic in everything linear
Others, scribbled onto my left palm—
Ink stains at my fingertips.
While some, forgotten before even touching a page.
It feels like a waste
Yet, I still crumple the papers holding
The most gut-wrenching I have written;
I wipe away the haikus on my palm,
And let the words naturally
Leave my mind
Because if not, my drawer will overflow with poems—
Written on receipts, on my scratch paper,
None of which I can ever give you.
And my left palm will be tattooed
With everything,
Anything,
About you.
Dandelions I've personally gathered,
Only to let them be blown away
Even before they bloom.