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