The flavor of lemons is bitter -
That’s why I don’t need the mints;
I locked away your blue sweater
With the lint still on the pillow.

I looked into the sea and saw the stars
Saltier than the tears and the lemon ****
We shared in the tearoom on that last Sunday –

There is a dry blue rose in the closet all pressed and crumbling.
Blind agony stumbles in frustration; your presents are my poison -
Now the porcelain needs dusting, the Valentines are jumbling.