Unsure of when, exactly, but that half-finished can of ginger ale is the sole souvenir of her last visit.
Stuck in the cupholder by a stubborn residue,
I could seal it off with the numerous receipts from dually eaten dinners that confetti the inside of the car, waiting for a return: receive the yearned replenishment.
I’ll even keep the passenger seat heater on,
which I have.
I never much noticed the amassed exchange of material until it could be perceived as debris,
but I have yet to submit to that belief:
I embrace additions; I’m not crowded.
Intertwine lives with stockpiles of possessions:
proliferate the physically intimate reminders, certain that a detonation would never leave behind rusty and painful relics.
The flirtatious dotting of pins and patches progressed into the compassionate, unregulated draping of hats, hoodies, and jackets.
But I know how those go:
worn too long, they became stale and heavy,
causing a restriction
of flexibility,
and therefore, compromise-
halted by the very matter meant to heal and humor.
Repelling out of a relationship and stagnant in love:
the stalemate of inaction, requiring a greater need to rush.
It was time to pick her up; I had hoped I packed all our stuff.
I rode into the sun to see her, driving blind on the highway,
and maybe that’s why, when I arrived, I didn’t notice there wasn’t enough,
not all that I could offer:
one rose that was too late, anyway?
I couldn’t stand to burden her with the rest:
I deserved to see the other five die.
She’s seen dozens display the same fate.
It’s my turn to watch the slow killing of carnations:
looking tired, and beginning to purple, I placed them in a vase, hoping they may rise and cease to suffocate.
But that very night,
in which they stood, upright in that wet coffin beside my bed,
a nightmare, un-recollectable, but estimated to be a review of recent reality,
produced a violent fidget, forcing the contained funeral to the floor, falling atop the air vent:
I sense her flowery perfume has returned to fill the air.
I awake to joy, only to discover decapitated corollas,
and thus, the deed is done:
by my own subconscious doings, no less.
Death has never smelled so pretty.
Dispersed, slowly separating petals remain to be gathered.
Treat them like the can, and though I can’t stand soda,
neither are litter, but decorations.
In no way defaming, but nurturing.
Never irritating, but inspiring.
No need to fight for space; there is always room for more.
And aren’t scattered and picked-apart flowers romantic?
So the stage is set:
come back, because I don’t want these moments to decay into memories,