Pale Cherry Blossom-Benjamin Moore 2101-60

A clear droplet

smashed and scattered.

The sky dying,

the sun buried,

the clouds awakening.

She was the lone cherry blossom.

She was ripped,

torn,

stepped all over.

She was cracked,

rigid,

and sharp.

She was broken glass.

She ran,

tripped,

and fell to her hands and knees.

The petals flew into

the distance over

the horizon.

They danced

and ran

and landed softly.

She panted,

gasping to catch her breath.

She crawled

like a toddler,

under the blossoming tree.

She leaned

with fairness

with her face in a pool

and gray, gaunt eyes

that lost life.

She was the lone cherry blossom.

The only one

that soared high up,

until shot down.

She started staring

with cold eyes,

dark eyes,

dead eyes.

The scared girls

walking down the street turned,

and clung

to their boyfriends.

She flinched with envy,

why couldn't that be her?

Why didn't she choose the right one?

What did she do to deserve pain?

She was the lone cherry blossom.

The one that always flew high.

The one always shot down.

The one that gets hurt.

Her soft hands

gently rubbed

against her cheek.

The imprint stayed,

the pain stayed,

the handprint stayed.

He's mean,

he's cruel,

he's her boyfriend.

The small petals float

and circle around

the trunk of the tree.

They understand,

they have lived,

they have died,

only to be reborn again.

She is the twirling petal

that drifts high,

until it's pulled down by gravity

turning pale and dry.

The petals surround her.

The one lone cherry blossom

flies high with them,

not to be shot down.