Opened the door when I heard the familiar
rustling of your keys
and pointed angrily at the floor,
broken pieces of glass and
puddles of water near your keyboard and
eighteen dead roses scattered all over
my living room, and
“That damn fucking cat knocked everything over,
and now there’s all this mess!”
You bent down to pick up the first rose
when I stopped you.
“It’s okay,” I said,
“we can just get rid of them.”
“Are you sure?”
I don’t even remember
where they came from.
Maybe it’s time
to move on.