the smoke of my cigar enveloped
my body as if it were a ghost,
i felt you by my side, outlining
one of your smooth smiles and i turned around;
you carried two history books, a bottle of the
finest wine and a pack of marlboro cigars.
"these are for you," you said, "because you
always give me flowers but i never had the
chance to give you something,". i turned my eyes
to our vase, where your yellow wallflowers lied.
i smiled as well and nodded slowly, redirecting
my eyes to the window as i continued smoking.

the wine bottle, which now looks like a rotten nectar,
is sleeping in an eternal dream on the edge of the window,
along with wet tobacco and moss-filled history books.
i don't touch them, i won't, because they still have your essence.
the wallflowers wilt over time, and i grow older with them.