I like the way you dress

like it’s not gonna hurt

in just a little bit;

your hair tied back,

spilling

like the bunch of yellow roses

I gave you months ago.

They would have died by now.

But they went prematurely,

knocked to the floor

with the glass that held them.

You asked if I would mind

if you threw them away.

You didn’t smile and spoke clearly.

And I didn’t say yes

as I watched them leave your small hands,

and land softly alive

in a plastic bag,

barely a sound made

to celebrate their slow deaths.

You gave your apology

for the brightly-colored

apparent suicide

as you washed the glass.