Dead flowers are brittle, break easy. Dust covers the things you gave me, mutes them, claims them, overtakes them, squeezing the pages of books together until they choke, clouding the glass jar that you use as a vase for the dead flowers.
Dead flowers do not need water, live easy. You made the bed this morning so if memory failed me I would have no way of seeing today that you were here last night. And when I blink my eyes, for that moment they're closed I cringe with the sudden goodbye, every instant turned away from your face filled with the graceless empty of having just finished a book. No longer able to live in its eyes, burrow into its spine, nestle into the crook of its neck.
dead flowers are brittle, break easy, please, please be careful with this–