She hands me a bouquet of flowers with heart-shaped leaves.
She smiles shyly as I put them into a vase and says,
“These are beautiful, just like you.”
How do I tell her that I cannot will not do not do this?
I know that she presents more wants more,
That this floral gift is but a prelude and opening question.
Best to dash these hopes now.
She can find another who sees
The glorious pink, the gentle fragrance, and the tender silk.
Not I, for I see all this yes but also
The wilted brown, the musk of decay, and the brittle dryness as they die.
I kiss her gently, a parting farewell, and walk her to the door.
This is love.
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