He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

A Flower a Day

He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not.

I wonder if that’s true. Perhaps I live in a delusional sense that he loves me, but in reality, he does not. Am I too hopeful? Am I too naive?

He loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me.

Or maybe his heart does belong to me? If it did, I would hope he would tell me. Imagine going on and on, wondering if the love of your life thinks of you.

He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not.

What if I’m wrong? What if the flowers he sends me every day mean nothing? What if I’m nothing to him?

He loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me.

No, I trust him. He would never lie. He has a claim to my heart, and I am grateful. On those lonely nights, he is there. He plays with my hair and recites sweet poems like the flowers he gives me.

He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not.

Though, some part of me still refuses to believe he would choose me. I am just a girl in a modern world who simply enjoys smelling flowers when others would trample all over them. Does that make me different? 

He loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me.

When his fingers trail over my skin and his lips are on mine, I forget everything. I am safe, I am home, and I am with him. I do not need anything more.

He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not.

What if I need something more? What if he can’t give me everything I want? What if one day, he does not give me a flower and gifts it to someone else? He knows the flowers are my world, could and would he be so cruel?

He loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me.

He whispers in my ear that he loves me most dearly. He reassures me I am his, and he is mine. I believe him every time. He promises we will stay together forever, no matter what happens. I believe him every time.

He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not.

One day, like my flowers, he will wilt and die. Or even worse, he will see me as the withered flower and discard me for a fresh one. Would he do such a thing? Would he try to bring me back to life, or would he leave me to rot?

He loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me.

I love him. I do. My heart breaks when he leaves and bursts when he comes home. Sometimes, even my flowers can’t compete with my love for him.

He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not.

Sometimes I lay awake, knowing he is not in bed and is far away from home. Where does he go to make me feel so lost and alone? Will he come back?

He loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me.

He always comes back. He brings me back more flowers and presses the old ones into books, so they stay with us forever. He tells me I smell of flowers, and he hasn’t known anything sweeter. I tell him not even my flora can compare to him.

He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not.

I wonder if he ever steps on flowers when he walks alone in the park. He rarely does, but I know he has done it before. One day, will he step on me and not care?

He loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me.

He says my name like I’m the greatest thing in his life, and I believe him every time. I say his name a thousand times, and the petals of my flowers bloom more when he smiles.

He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not.

Sometimes the flower you might want is not in season. Am I always in season to him? Am I his favourite flower?

He loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me.

He takes my hand, and we walk down botanical gardens because he knows how much I love them. He reads out the little plaques with information about every flower and then tells me no matter how much he loves flowers, he will love me more.

He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not.

I watched him dig up the old magnolia tree. The white and pink flowers had slowly turned brown, and the tree would no longer produce flowers. I wonder if he will ever have to do this to me. Pull my decaying roots out of the ground, and toss me away like rubbish.

He loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me.

He helps me plant a big wisteria in the backyard. He smiles, and he says he can’t wait for it to shoot up and have beautiful periwinkle coloured flowers. I grin and tell him I am excited as well.

He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not.

He dug up red roses this time. I saw him wipe the sweat off his forehead and noticed him frown when he saw the roses were no longer red like the delicious strawberries in the garden. He dumps them in the bin, knowing he will never see them again. 

He loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me.

His heart belongs to me, and our love grows like the healthiest flowers on the street. We are like flowers in a garden bed, growing with every beam of sunlight. Our love blossoms and blooms like no other, our vibrancy and love never unbreakable.

He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not.

Until it does.