Sickly Flowers (Maybe a Different Day)

I always hated this day
of over gracious love
epic proportions of sickly romantics.
I know just how to fake the truth,  
how to look away when you walk by with her.
There are rules and I break them every time
like some pirate hearted dweller.  
You pulled me close once
as the night faded...
but that’s a story too rich in glory
for this poem.

I hate the sickly pink flowers and petals
that sweep to dusty tabletops,  
loathe the glimmer in lover’s eyes,
the songs that play on all day.  
There’s a rhythm in the darkness,
there’s a beat in a poet’s words;
couldn’t tell you what I wanted to.  
I know how this works all the same.  
It’s making something from nothing
drawing the romantic in me without trying.
You did it once
but that’s a silly cliché
for another day.  
 
I lied when I said it never did bother me,  
one more rebel minded reply,
ten steps from the truth.
I know how to tell you what’s on my mind
and never what’s in the heart.  
Time flies and words slip by
I know just how to keep them inside.
I don’t know how you know it anyways,
how your eyes stray my way.  
I love the rain, the way it falls down windows
love running through puddles in the streets
and I would love to pull you close
as the night fades...
but really, that’s a story and a cliché
for maybe a different day.