I might have thrown away,
Numerous pages,
With scribbled words,
Scrawled in ugly handwriting.

I might have crushed,
The petals of flowers,
Which worshiped you,
Lying below thy feet.

I might have murmured,
Incoherent apologies,
Which backfired,
Well, all thanks to me.

But what I never threw,
We’re memories held,
Fuzzy in my brain,
And heart beaming with glee.

But what I never threw,
Were pages of flowers poetries,
All written to fill my empty space,
Which was once occupied by thee.