He laid the bouquet in my arms
like I was a weeping pageant queen.
The cellophane groaned and
thorns poked as he
leaned close to address a tear.
Aw, you’re a mess he cooed
as though I wept for a torn dress
rather than the sudden
utter dissolution of the
tender neck where my tired boy's
sweaty curls once had clung
as if pressed in a blue satin bow.
– Teresa Kiplinger
Photo: Annie Spratt via Unsplash