Gathering Dust

I bought flowers for her,

an ebullient bunch of lilies and pachysandra and daisies.

All whites and blues and yellows,

the colors she tells me she loves.

"They remind me of the sun and the water,

of my favorite beach," she says.

The one where she grew up.

She tells me this each time I see her.

She also pulls me in close,

wraps her soft arms around my shoulders

and whispers into my ear.

"It's always good to see you."

Her eyes crinkle inward,

and her lips curve upwards.

and the hug, long and slow,

is the type that engulfs you,

makes you feel special.

You think you might be one of the chosen,

the special few who breach the wall.

Those lilies and pachysandra and daisies still sit,

waiting, on my windowsill.

Gathering dust, losing life,

wilting in the weak winter sun.

The loss is hers, really.