Contributor: JL Smith

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was beautiful.
Red, filled with flowers
you don’t normally receive.
Daisies mixed with lilies,
other flowers the florist
had on hand that day.

You touch them,
the lilies silk smooth
like a touch on a shaven cheek—
something you haven’t felt in so long.
Soft, like a child’s hand—
something else you haven’t felt in so long.

You know who they are from.
You know why you received them,
a celebration that comes on the 14th day,
but the sentiment felt odd
since love had grown cold,
fading,
ailing,
like the floral arrangement,
long after the feed packets are gone,
water is changed out,
its life cycle complete.

Faded,
discarded,
forgotten after its demise.


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JL Smith lives in Odenton, MD. She is the author of two books of poetry, Medusa, The Lost Daughter and Weathered Fragments, Weathered Souls.