I played piano on a rainy Sunday night
swimming in a blood red bottle
of $9 Kendall Jackson
as the vase on the coffee table
reminded me
of a night
that will
never happen again.
You had bought flowers,
irises,
and asked what I thought.
Without looking up from
my magazine,
I said,
"They're beautiful."
An argument ensued,
about my not listening,
your past indiscretion,
the nature and composition
of the space-time continuum.
Somehow we ended up
in bed
with apologies,
and clothes,
and sweet nothings,
scattered around the room.
Now I buy fresh
irises
every few days
and they are beautiful
and you aren't here
to see them.
