Flower shelf.
            Run my fingers on the mantle-edge:
            Collecting dust as a way to clean dust.
            Stare at the dried petals,
            The static ribbons,
            The decaying stems;
            And notice no noticeable dust.
            Almost ironic
                        That they sit in their frail beauty
                                    As though time has
                                                Stood still
                                                            Solely
                                                                        For them.

Count the arrangements:
            3, 4,                                     Five.
Count the singles
            2, no,                         Three.
Remember for what each
                        And every
            Petal stands.

Lightest blue ribbon to the farthest left:
Decayed pale carnations, yellow in shade.
The bow is still perfect,
            The same as it was
                        When he said he’d always be there for me
[but could not love me at the time].
His flowers still stand brightest and wisest
            As our friendship lasts
                        From Maryland to Texas.

Next to this, similar petals, different arrangement.
It’s to be expected.
            Different bow― darker, tealer ―different dress.
            Different florist― less sparkle, more ribbon the stem ―different date.
Not chronological, but a year between flowers.

Your petals are also yellowing with age…
Weren’t your petals once
            White and pure,
Like my love and his?
Pure enough to
            Verbalize,
If I remember correctly.
At least it was locked in a picture frame
            Placed on his desk
[Does it still sit there, I ask?]

Bubble gum pink, farthest right.
In the middle of time,                         but.
Still vibrant in memory.
I lost…
            He wouldn’t wear the pink tie,
                        And I couldn’t find a
                                    boutonniere in time,
                                                To be the same
                                                            Shade.
I think I’ll go get that tie now,
            Or at least take the one left in the chemistry lab…

Purple ribbon, on the top, but hiding in the back...
Your flowers match in color―
            Almost match the perfect dress I wore.
Your placement in this odd arrangement
                        Is ironic.
            On top― you were my most recent.
            In back― the three hours you represent were the worst.
            Even worse than when I had no
            Flowers to help me remember.
The violet shade reminds me of my song.
            How I am a Black Rose,
            And will remain so
            Until someone comes and
            Shatters my fears and hurt.
            But this flower giver wasn’t that Knight.

If I take off these flowers,
            I see the fifth.
Hiding past these other memories,
For it was the first in procession
[after light blue
and before dark teal].
Red roses represent blossoming love.
            Your petals pressed to remain in my memory
                        Forevermore.
Even when you’re hiding
            You are vibrant.
Young Love at its climax
            Or, at lest, right before the climax.
You don’t remember how
            I escaped on a bus
            So that he could give me
your petals,
put them on my wrist,
hold you and my flesh,
for an awkward dance in
            October.
But you need not remember,
For I always will.

Five arrangements.
            Five occasions.
                        Two boys, never men.

And too many memories for me to
                        Count.

I look back on the flower shelf,
See the other three, without ribbons,
And I hold back those memories.
Glimpses slip through, anyways.
            A tea party. Pleasant.
            A funeral. Why didn’t she listen to your eulogy,
            The one I said when no one else could stand?
            Funeral two. We “could only imagine”/
            But you knew, then.
I touch pressed flowers, singular.
            Red Rose.
                        Purple Rose.
                                    Yellow carnation.
Another time for remembering you will come,
But not now.

Glance back at the ribbons.
            Remember a little longer.
Should I put you away,
                        Lost love langsyne?
I can’t.
            It’s too fresh to lose meaning.
Run my fingers ‘cross the ribbons―
            No dust.
Run my fingers ‘cross the mantle edge:
            My thoughts have swept
                        Away
            The dust.
Now there’s no dust remaining on my cleanly
            Flower shelf.