“Warning, my love,” he says, his tone a soothing dance between dark humor and unease, “They’ve given me fresh corpses.”
I reach for the bouquet, sighing when the plastic shroud crackles against my open palm. “They mean well,” I say, kissing his mouth, looking into eyes that mirror my own in thinking, Meaning well isn’t good enough.
To the sacrifice, I whisper, “Wilt gently, darlings, I will preserve your bones.”
I wonder, wonder…
if cut flowers ever think
of dying for love
the wee notes…
– I don’t cut flowers I’m not going to eat or use for some sort of remedy. Since my Piano Man knows this, he tries to let people know so that they won’t present them as gifts after shows. When all fails, and people insist in showing their love for music with a bit of death, I dry the flowers, keep them for a while… before giving them back to the dirt.
– linked to Poets United.