Love Language

I read somewhere that most men receive flowers
for the first time at their funeral. So I filled a vase
in your apartment with puckered roses, sunflowers cut
at the morning farmers market, daisies thick with pollen,
lilies vivid as the dregs of sunset. Placed a violet orchid
on your windowsill, its tender buds blossoming with the
spring days. Jacaranda season is my favorite in this city
where tree leaves are green parrots. Some weekends I come
over just to pour the yellowed water out of the vase and fill it
with clear water from the tap. I cut my hand tearing thorns
off your roses, but I keep bandages in my purse and did not
want you to bleed. No, you never said thank you. Yes, you
never asked for any of it, and I never told you I loved you.
But what more did you want from me.