I watch in anguish,
as the petals touch the ground.
My heart breaking silently,
Crumbling without a sound.
Being young is hard.
You feel to your core.
I slowly grab the last petal,
and my little heart grows sore.
I pluck it from the stem,
Before it falls, I stop.
And these are the words my little voice says,
“I guess he loves me not…”