Late White Flower

In my empty kitchen, a used up paper cake cup
Becomes a rare genus of white rose
when rolled in between my fingertips.
I could not think of anyone to gift it to but you,
Now nowhere to be found. Perhaps an hour before
When we stood beneath the neighbors' seeping patio,
The leaking liquid falling in loud spats
Brought on by the Spring thaw,
You would have accepted
This token of my affectation.

And recognizing the imaginativeness of its beauty
You would have remembered why
It was we make such incredible love.
Instead, you stood over your rusted bicycle.
A Valkyrie and steed, hair curling in the wind,
Eyes melting the world around us.
This is our Vigrior, this empty parking space the scene
Of our last clash. I try to tear your fingers from the handlebar
And pull you in towards me, begging that you choose
To spirit me off with you into your paradise.

But empty handed, without a rose,
Without even a reason for you to stay,
You back away. I back away. The cold is just as unforgiving
When it hits me, and I remember the numbing
Sensation of abandonment. You take off where
I cannot follow, over the earth gasping for breath.
Somewhere near, the raven beckons
In foreign words from its unseen perch
To find another set of wings to flay.