Maybe I shouldn't be counting and maybe I should stop looking at your picture twice a day, but I'm holding onto a little bit of hope that maybe you'll wake up tomorrow and be convinced that the last eighty four days of your life have been missing something. And I don't mean a small something like just the right amount of salt and pepper on your morning eggs or the small satisfaction you feel when it stops raining right before you get out of your car. I'm talking about missing a piece of you that you are struggling to live without. You said you'd be my Adam and that I was your Eve. I was your walking, talking, breathing other half. You gave your rib for me, you gave a delicate strand of you in order to make me complete. So how can you not expect me to fall to the ground knee deep in my own tears when you pack your bags and gather your things and buy a one way ticket to the farthest city from here? How is it that you thought that a phone call to check on my mother and I would suffice the weeks of your absence. You tried to justify your departure by saying it was long coming; but I don't understand how it was.
You kissed me on that late autumn night and asked me to be yours for the rest of the sun-rising days in the cold winter. You said I was your sunshine when the city was covered in snow, you said I kept you warm when the fire didn't burn bright enough. And you said that when the ground hog saw his shadow I would be the most beautiful flower you've ever seen in just six weeks. You said you would fall in love over and over again with my petals and my sweet scent and that the bees would be jealous of all the attention you gave me. But instead when the flowers began to bloom, you picked at me too much. And you said that I wasn't as pretty as you hoped and preferred waking up to roses beside you. But still I tried to convince myself that if you loved sunflowers before, that you would love them again one day. But I've waited for eighty four days for a visit to the garden you planted and never returned to.
