Sunflowers

The first time you got me flowers

was just because,

but

you lost them on the way here.

The second time you got me flowers

was for my birthday.

You picked them out of my own front yard.

You didn’t think that I would notice.

(I didn’t)

The third time you got me flowers

was for Valentine’s day,

and the roses still had thorns

and we had to go to the ER

to get that thorn

pulled out of my thumb.

The fourth time you got me flowers

was after a fight.

“Yellow,” you had said

“for the colour I feel like

when I see

you.”

I told you off—

sunflowers were expensive.

You waved my concerns away

and tucked one

behind my ear.

And all of a sudden,

everything

really

was

yellow.

My sundresses went from peach to lemon,

my walls went from beige to canary,

my heart went from red to you.

I planted sunflowers.

I wore sunflowers.

I dreamt of sunflowers.

I became a sunflower,

always facing the light:

you.

It looked good on me,

everyone said.

A new hue,

a brighter you.

“Yellow,” you say,

“like the light you are.”

Now,

I stare at the yellow,

it stares back at me.

With pity, really.

The sunflowers are weeks old,

rotting—

just like how we were.

They look at me,

dull,

because I have no yellow left.

How could I?

When you took all the light with you.