The fake flowers
take gentle peeks
at me between my
disoriented eyelids.
I'm still adjusting
to losing you.
At first, I wanted
fresh flowers for you.
Only the best.
But soon, the effort
drained me.
They would come to life
once I brought them home
from the grocery store,
yet I couldn't stop them
from eventually wilting
weeks later, and sometimes,
sooner.
Waking to see you
perk up at my voice,
then mourning the loss
of light and joy and meaning
immediately after.
It's cruel, this kind of whiplash.
So, I settled for fake flowers,
and somehow, I'm amazed every
day, that some things don't die.
I know I can't avoid the dark
and the persistence of shadows,
but I deserve a break, too.
