He gave her a thousand bouquets,
sometimes carnations,
sometimes sunflowers,
but mostly roses,
bright red roses -
the deep color
of a prodded wound
or a racing dream.
He gave her a thousand bouquets,
near bus stops,
at telephone booths,
inside churches,
once in a graveyard
when she was grieving
her aunt's early demise.
Some were thrown in trash cans,
some were forgotten in handbags,
some were mindlessly torn apart,
petal by petal - as in a game,
some were neatly arranged
in a crystal vase
by her younger sister.
It was past twilight
on a late summer evening,
the bats were hunting
a rich harvest
in the humid air.
He approached her again
at the back entrance
of the local bakery.
She grabbed the flowers
from his sweaty arms,
pushed him
against the mossy brick wall,
stared into his eyes,
and waited.
He muttered something.
In an instant,
she kissed him
on his dry, peeling lips.
It was not a quick one,
It was not a deep one,
just long enough
to be called
an invitation.
She took a deep drag
from her cigarette,
and walked away
into the darkness.
His eyes
followed the wisps of smoke.
He shook himself off
the camouflage
of the wall
and collapsed
on a bag of soda bottles.
The night sky
turned steely blue.
Her perfume
lingered on his senses,
weakening his knees.
His sight
turned blurry.
She went home,
asked her sister
for the crystal vase,
changed
into her nightdress,
arranged the flowers,
and played some loud music.
He went back to his room
after two hours.
He changed
into his pajamas.
Within minutes of his arrival,
his tabby cat
sneaked inside
from the window.
Clutched
between its teeth
was a blood-soaked bat
frantically beating its wings,
and bleating
like ominous sirens.
He poured warm milk
into a plastic bowl
by the refrigerator.
That night,
his spirit animal
put him to sleep
while narrating
a different version of the story.
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