The sunflowers I bought you
sat backlit by the window.
Their long stems
reflected into our small kitchen;
Every fallen petal played out
like a slow, sorrowful production
on how beautiful things often die.
I remember that last week and how
we had mapped out routes to avoid each other.
Our bodies that once pointed towards
one another like home,
now recalculated every way to avoid contact.
When our eyes involuntarily did meet
I would quickly begin to count
the dry, mustard yellow
blades on our kitchen table
until you were gone.
Till this day, every time I think of you,
I think of petals, and begin to count
until I can no longer feel the
enormous weight of your absence.