i can no longer say i love you
without coughing up
a calyx of petals, darling;
a flower,
for every written poetry,
a flower,
for each metaphor for your eyes.
a flower,
for each pillow-talk,
for each time i looked for
your amber eyes in a crowd,
a flower,
for each sunset wish
and each love letter buried
at the end of every song, darling —
a flower, for each time
i say i love you
without trying to say your name —
a flower for each time
i listen
to pareidolias of your voice
mixed
with the pitter-patters of the rain.

just a flower, i thought.

but darling, my lungs are now a garden
of your favorite flowers;

they are now a garden
of all the times
i tried to unlove you
and all the times
i ever failed.

darling, they are now a garden
of all my i love you’s

and all the
i love you too’s
you won’t
ever
say.