metaphor

You gave me flowers –– a whole bouquet, pink and white –– and I kept them in a vase on my desk. They lasted a week before they died. I kept them there for another three days after that, until they started to smell. I threw them away.

"You're so beautiful," you said out of the grey dusk. For the first time, I said, "Don't lie to get what you want." It was the switch that turned out the lights. Your eyes shuttered from the inside, and mine were candle flames in the dark.

I wrote you a note and folded it into a crumpled heart. I sealed it with the kiss I wouldn't give you. And then I tore it to tatters and shreds, ripped it into a fistful of pieces. I let them go dance in the evening wind, set free, just like me.

I planted my own flowers a week ago. I pushed the seeds down gently into the dirt, safe in their little pot. I put them on my window sill. And they've started growing, pushing up little green sprouts towards the warmth and light. They'll bloom with time and patience.
I don't mind waiting. I've found a better metaphor.