I put the flowers you sent me
On my desk
They clung to life on
A glass of water
And the light that passed
Through the slits of my blinds.

They were quite lovely
You know.
Vibrant, resilient
Arching towards any hope of sun
That reached my 17th story apartment.

They’re dead now
Starting to brown, shrivel up.
Fitting.
I can’t seem to throw them away.