this isn’t love.
this is another
addiction.
and that’s what i tell you,
conventional facebook wisdom,
from a mountain range away.
i can see the crinkle of
spontaneity in the folds of the
bouquet you bought her,
the red and gold and pink
of the sunsets i left behind;
they wilted when you put them
in her car while she was at work,
the unspoken knowledge of an
unlocked door,
shutting in a touch of
pollen and hope, dusting her
rearview mirror.
i wonder if she’ll be able to drive and
see clearly.
i know you have an addictive personality,
that you cling and destroy and renew with sadism and intelligence and love,
but this isn’t going to work.
this isn’t going to solve
half a year’s worth of her saying no,
and a year and half’s worth of a repetitive, vicious cycle,
that she was all too right to break out of.
no amount of flowers will bring her back,
even the largest bloom will not be enough to be a
sufficient metaphor for your renewed passion.
all you have left is the receipt of ashes
that you left in the driver’s seat.