I sent you flowers, just as us in a triptych
A dream about lilies, eucalyptus, and pussy willows
But this isn’t a romance
Like Klimt’s The Kiss
Rather a memory of Monet
Clouded and miles apart in a massive room
So pleasantly boring to be in
Isn’t that the desire
not the addiction to a novel scent
These flowers aren’t forever
Just like the feeling
Cut, water, envase
Capture and watch it and smell it
And when it fades, renew
A fresh bouquet, maybe slightly different
Or watch them whither, dry and press a permanent memory
See, love is not the flowers –
nor the blind Monet, nor the ideas of Klimt
It’s the smile I hear
with no expectations or shame
It’s not to ignore or forget or suppress
The flowers need a friend, not a lover
To create the bond which is forever
Not a poem or song or a painting
Just a new petal or two
A laugh, even from a far, the wind blew
A laugh, the least romantic
To make you laugh, not to love you
But sometimes love just wants to cry
Reply