Hanakotoba

I drop a cactus bloom on your desk
with a note to meet me at the bridge.
You obey and come running.
We stand in the dark,
sharing kisses that set the river on fire.

You leave me camelias,
yellow and white,
letting me know your wife's out of town.
Too bad I'm stuck at home
for the long weekend.

When my luck changes,
I follow you home
and spend the weekend
in a brand new city,
smiling into your skin.

I pepper your computer
with gardenia blossoms
and let you know he won't be here.
You smile when you find me
and tell me where to go.

We meet at the cafe,
and I spot the white roses
floating in your hands.
You lead me to your car with them,
and off we go to the north.

It takes me a month to find the primrose,
my S.O.S. of too many flowers in bloom.
One grows in me, a seed sown
only to be ripped out,
for no one should know.

Carnations and white mums await me
the next day; I wonder
what I must do to kill the womb-flower.
In your car I go again
to a doctor in the 'burbs.

Tucking my knees to my chest,
I hear the woosh in my ears;
the flower's sucked out.
I close my eyes as I let you
carry me to the car.

I call in sick then return to work.
Peering around the cubicle walls,
I see you're not there.
I retrieve sweet pea blossoms from my tote
and drop them on your keyboard before I am caught.

As I pack up my desk and prepare to head out,
a glint of color catches my eye.
Picking it up, I caress maroon rose petals.
I toss it in the trash,
knowing I have to let you go.