Perhaps my heart is pale. Pale like white lilies. Perhaps it is pallid because it’s hung in the shade too long. Like the climax in a story that has been overlooked
With a love like the sun, perhaps it could turn that white to pink. With a strong mind and hand, it might throb. It would swell like a bruise, like an amethyst upon an earlobe that you once kissed.
Perhaps today, we will split the difference. We will talk about better times when your head was still on your shoulders and not cramped in your ankles.
Or perhaps, I will find a more suitable apogee. One that tends to these flowers in my garden and weeds in my heart.