You are a shotgun that shoots me with flowers, that stick to my skin like the wet morning air. You are apologies left unread hidden in the mailboxes of the people I love during the humid summers of Florida. You are a pocket knife. You are a lighter with little gas left. You are essential to live, if not, it would mean a life without tears rolling down my dry skin when I’m eating York Peppermint patties at 2 am thinking of you. You are a shotgun. You are the light of a dimly lit candle that burns me when I go to turn the flame off with my fingers in the middle of a monsoon. You are a noose. You are a hammer with no nail on a rainy Sunday evening. You are a shotgun that shoots me with flowers.