When he found out I fell in love with peach tulips,
he sent them to me.
Wrapped in burlap with other farm flowers
because I asked for them.
Don’t ask for love.
Ever.
You shouldn’t have to.
He didn’t know this.
I didn’t know this,
yet.
Because of this they made me sick for years,
never seeing them the same way.
No, never seeing their simple charm,
delicate like choices,
sincere like change.
Maybe that’s why.
Maybe they were never peach or pink but alarmingly clear.
In a way they telepathically tell you
about the things you need to change
or steer clear of.
The things you need to love
more than people.
There is no him now.
So if I happen to walk by tulips
they smile.
I pick them for myself and keep them in milk jars.
I don’t ask anyone for them.
I just need to know they’re there
when I need a little reassurance.
I need to do these acts
to elicit tiny responses of romance
when the dark days find me alone
in a house with only dogs and silver spoons.
Spoons to scoop cups full of reminders
of how love
can be cold mornings
with only one human body in bed
and a hundred pounds of dog body
taking up the rest of the covers.
It becomes apparent
when my feet touch the cold floor
for the first time each morning,
before tending my own wounds
with lavender and oats
and the occasional kiss from my old cat,
that this kind of love
is what makes me significant.
