Tequila Bottle Full of Roses

I tried to tell you how sorry I am
countless times.
I reached my arms out to you
but human touch was no longer
a band-aid for this sore.
In some ways I did my best to love you,
sparkling glints of it I’m sure I felt—
I think.
No—I know I loved you.

Choosing between doll-like obedience
and a fast-pouring, flirty, quick-witted,
not-afraid-to-disagree-with-an-idea
kind of woman
was wearing on me.
Internal arguments
consisting of which persona
I should choose
for the day
grew tiring.
No longer part of a couple
I’m back where I started,
before I even knew
you existed—
trying not to care
and getting my kicks
with the neighbor next-door.

But because I once felt what
it was like to be kissed by someone
that loved me so much he
got an ulcer—
my old ways are empty and boring.
Your presence still resonates within me.
We’ve kept one another around
like smudged ticket stubs
easily forgotten in an old wool jacket.

That rose you bought me
months ago,
the one I placed in my make-shift vase—
a glittering tequila bottle whose contents
once left us entangled underneath a mere
ocean of sheets,
finally dropped its last dried petal.

The pairing which inhabited my room for months,
was one I could no longer stand.
I kept the black-dusted posy around until its juices
dangerously mingled
with the diluted tequila droplets.
Its rotting odor made me dizzy.
I threw it all away today—
the bottle, the flower.
But don’t worry, I kept the note
that you signed with X’s and O’s.
My sentimental side placing it in the box labeled with
a hand-drawn heart.