He
wrote me
for over a year
and despite my will
my heart started to blossom
overtime, the stem grew many thorns
justifying there had to be pain
before any type of pleasure

I combed every letter meticulously, searching for a reality
wanting to make believe in the 'fairytales'
of two broke-n hearts fleeing to London on love
a novel of sorts, except we were to be the main characters

throughout it all, I tried to keep my harden heart just that
waiting for the actions to soften its spot
I could be patient for love
if love was truly on its way
but we were more than just two worlds apart
time also kept us at bay

eventually, he
stopped writing me letters
and despite my will
my heart started to wilt
I heard about the rose that grew from concrete
but what about the one that grew with no love