A Poem for the Girl Named Rose

Sometimes I feel alone.

I mean, I often am alone, but being alone

Doesn’t require the feeling, does it? I sit in this room

Letting myself become overwhelmed. I reminisce

over everything.  All the fun we had together and the laughs we shared.

But that only lasts for a moment before reality sets in.

None of that is real anymore. All the mistakes I’ve made

Seem to come back at once and I start to question everything

Just the two of us said when there was nothing between us but honesty.

I try to imagine all the words I know you left unsaid, and I try to

Create scenarios in which I could tell you all the things I never did.

But much like the rest of my actions, I feel like asking for these words,

Or even offering my own would prove nothing short of disastrous.

Quite often I think of you and I find myself reciting Whitman:

                Gather ye rosebuds while ye may

                Old time is still A-Flying;

                And this same flower that smiles today

                Tomorrow will be dying.

You see, this is my greatest fear.

I’m petrified that I gathered far too many rosebuds

Far too quickly; and now you’ve wasted all your smiles

On a love not nearly deserving enough for you. Now tomorrow

Is almost here and I am praying that Mr. Whitman, though

A wordsmith supreme, has miswritten this one phrase.