She handed me a bouquet,

My face full of flowers.

Daisies, her favorite, or so I've heard.

“I picked them for you, the same name as yours.”

She said to me,

But I was allergic to daisies.

She attempted to mend her mistake,

And I would listen- restraining my sniffles as she serenaded me.

Singing with sour notes.

She was unorganized, uncomprehensible and uncompromisable.

Her mouth would fumble the words, unable to find the right rhyme. 

As I couldn't spare the time.

We were different, unable to grasp a common ground.

Yet, I found her mess endearing.

And on the next date

I brought her peonies.

Which made her smile,

And sneeze.