I first brought her carnations
as overture, a prelude,
then roses –
red as the ink my heart bled for her,
then dark chocolate of desire.
Her smiles remained glassy.
I gave her painted china dolls,
crystal vials,
captured spirits.
I gave devotion, desperation.
I gave her looks.
I gave her words.
Yet still her eyes retained that flickering
as of candle in a window
with the shutters drawn behind.
And so I brought her lilies,
pure and white,
an epilogue.
And then I brought a silver knife –
the only gift accepted wholly,
now stained with blood as red
as mine –
as the ink my heart once bled for her.
Let me keep it, if you may.