White lies and dying flowers
Tu me manques: you are missing from me. No, not quite: not missing; not gone; not lost. Elsewhere. Elsewhere and somewhere and I didn’t know, when the first petals slipped form the stalk, when the white lies were to myself explaining hesitation. I won’t again. We’ll be fine.
I found a petal on my bed, crushed by a weight from tired nights, missed by eyes weary from math. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Elsewhere.
Where are you? Will you answer?: not the question; no, not will; do you want to? You are missing from me. Do you want to be?
Don’t die. I can’t do this again. I won’t. Come back: you are missing: I am missing, I am lost. No lies, but white noise is the same; static in my ears, muffled music, constantly; something missing, that melody. Come back.
Dried roses across the hallway; I jostled them today. The dust, scattering, shuffling, a single petal falling. The others are loose; another time, but already prepared; come back, I’m worried about you.
I am not missing from you. But you are everything to me.
Come back.
