Luke Johnson: The Difficulty of Bouquets

In my car in front	            I re-rubberbanded 
two bouquets	            to one with balance, 
impossible to know	    inside you were deciphering 
your escape, me,	            a catastrophe
of cellophane	            at my feet, and you
burst when you	            saw me, saw flowers,
and I knew then               at the top of the staircase. 
The worst part:  	            this boring trope for love
and how it ends.              Crumpled plastic.
In a cartoon	                    the flowers wilt.
One of the bouquets,	    the yellow one,
all stems and still	    curled heads,
and here is the curling   of you sleeping there
is your damp hair	            and my bare chest, and here 
the unfolding proof	    it is gone. The other,
the orange one,	            already past peak blossom.
These will be good	    for a long time 
together, I thought.	    Small beauty
is not always enough.	    The worst part 
the other bouquet	    just now blooms. 
The worst part	            writing oneself
a dope, convinced	    by the convincing 
visibility of skin	            we’d given each other, 
the easy union	            our bodies made
hours between	            nights and mornings
when I couldn’t be	    sure it was real
the first few moments	    except I knew it wasn’t
possible to separate	    the idea of you
from you moving	            armlessly beneath me.
The worst part	            it was not like this.
The worst part	            we knew each other
in our bodies.	            The worst part
objects echo.	            I’m not even sure
the flowers	                    are the right colors.