Picking Daisies

He loves me. He loves me not.

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That’s the game we used to play, sitting in daisy fields, grinning with Popsicle sticky grins and ribbons in our hair. Petal by petal we waited with faux baited breath the truth of our love’s dare. Reciprocal or unrequited, we pulled and threw the question into the world, tossing it back and forth pit and pat like our double dutch ropes scraping the pavement.

He loves me.

I’m a kid again, pulling fabrics of him close to my chest breathing deeply inward summoning his scent from my memory.  Eyes closed remembering just what it feels like to live in his embrace, just under his chin, my nook my home.  Wishing quietly for the tender forehead kiss he always gave me when he had to go but wanted to stay, its like the one I gave my favorite doll right before I left childhood.

The merry go round slows to a stop, and the world comes back into focus. The streetlights flicker on and lightning bugs illuminate the dusty cerulean, I listen for my name in my mothers voice, heart sunken to my shoes as the day passed so quickly through my fingertips. Its night time, and with the petal in my hand which held the truth and my hearts joy an imaginative and curious better part of me wonders what adventure tomorrow will bring and skips into the night awaiting the dreams and carefree playtimes.

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