He loves me, he loves me not – a poem

The aching pangs
Of missing something familiar
Hit me on Sundays
When the sun is high
And I remember summers
Spent in my garden
While you melted in the heat
So I made you daisy chain crowns

But what is it, truly
That we miss, love?
Because you always slept
Next to someone else
And the flowers that
Adorned your head,
Weren’t mine. In the end.