It was in the morning, in class, when a minor thought drifted into my head, blossoming like a cherry tree bud.
Petals shared and answers given; I knew it was you, and I returned lilies, white and majestic, I adored them.
Practice was amusing and we played jokes on everyone, always a twosome, not conjoined in body, but in mind.
In school, we studied similar subjects, shared friends, finished each other’s sentences but we’d parted to different cities.
Then I couldn’t find you within me, there were no flowers, only a wall of barbed thistles.
You’d barricaded your mind, to hide from me; chided I wept, bereft of your soft petals.
At home you’d changed, every shared flower had sharp thorns with pollen that stained scarlet.
A wall of ivy separated us and I was alone for the first time.
When you married, I was your bridesmaid, and carried lilies in my hands.
They were stripped of pollen, as you had stripped yourself of me.
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