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.