I see faces in the tuberoses dying in my vase.
Are they really counting my days?
The faces wince in pain as they watch me every evening.
Tonight the faces contorted, dodging concern and flowing straight into judgement.
They hear the dogs howling and the mosquitos buzzing all trapped in this little silver box by my bed
So they focus on me instead
I know they've  been checking to see if I'm dead.
And every time I breathe again they let their fragrance haunt and mend.
The flowers are dying I tell myself, they have been for days, scent less by now I must imagine things.
My little silver box clings and the wood enclosing my room cracks and all I do is listen
Sirens, screams, rings and all sorts of disturbances.
Why can't I go to sleep and just forget about the tuberoses?
Why do I have to live in the flickers of light and notice their grimaces?
I've had enough tasteless nightmares this dead flora can't stand the comparison.
And yet their image burns and their scent hypnotises,
The door handle turns and what's hollow crystallises
My pride is hurt and the spiders in the house begin to thread.
I must be hallucinating about love again.