Can I Compare this Boquet to You?

I spread the tips of my fingers against the smooth wood of my table- elongated so there’s enough room in the center for a bouquet of roses.
I never thought I’d be given roses: a traditional statement.
In those laughing moments the unexpected seemed inviting.
My lopsided mug of coffee is emptied, and there are things I must do,
but these roses claim my immediate attention like a peach colored swan.
How very intriguing, that these were a surprise...
My thoughts dwell on it now, while taking in the loss of color. They should have been no surprise at all. Isn’t that how flowers always arrive? You glide through the floral section at every market while thinking, “how spectacular,” but of course you won’t purchase them. You wouldn’t have taken the few moments to sweep through the rows and decide on your favorite group of arranged petals.
How delightful when that bouquet, overflowing with your most adored colors, are the ringer to your doorbell. You feel your heart pump: screaming with elation.  
They excite you as you make a home for them…a centerpiece in your living room, or perhaps on a sill so your visitors can truly admire them; the sun bursting through each petal. And of course, they’ll ask questions- commenting on their beauty and itching to know who delivered them.
Flowers make you feel special. They deliver a warmth that was particularly for you. A warmth, because you were understood enough for the giver to pick out the one bouquet that fits your intentions.
Granted, my roses are dying now.
Their petals aren’t perky.
Seductive reds now bleed away, curling to burnt edges and smudging with muddy centers.
The leaves droop, sad- photosynthesis at its absolute worst.
My bouquet of roses won’t absorb any sunshine. They’re willing to fade away right in front of my eyes. The warmth disappears because I feel gloomy. No matter how much water, how much love; even if I let them soak in the rays of the sun all day, they still die on me.
A gift that brought such excitement will be dead by tomorrow.
Now, resting before them, I find I’m not so surprised as my last bouquet of hydrangeas.
The red was new: tempting, when I received these.
Their folds and grooves were spontaneously erotic.
But, like my hydrangeas they are still plucked flowers stolen from the ground.
I had been caring for something that had already been killed. But with such beautiful wrappings I imagined they could stay on my table forever.
Roses die.
They bleed- the reds soaked out.
Disintegrate upon your windowsill.
The cold part is they do so on display, oh so gradually, and then all at once.
Losing each petal until there’s only bare stems, they’re fading away.
Fading away,
until they’re replaced with carnations, or sunflowers…possibly lily’s.
And again, you can’t help but be entirely encapsulated by their stunning form.
Until the first petal crumples.


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