I Can't Get Over Her Even Though I Know She Isn't The One

Nothing with her was casual, I flew around the bush like a bee. The night's were harsh in the light, as a moth I wanted more. Some like them hot and as such fires grow inside wavered not. So I planted a rose garden and fruit tree's around the house. I couldn't hide all the red flags, so I learned to sew buttons white made of bone, stitched in, down the middle, vivid purple. She admits nothing, not as I do, without sight her red lips are. Pink oysters shine with a luster, muscles open and close around it. Psychologically all the boxes in the house were closed and empty. And as such, the moon every night was kept full, from prying eye's. I can't get over her even though she isn't the one and I'm alone.