Malice

If my exgirlfriend was a flower, she would be a flower I saw in a graveyard.

Like a sunflower I once saw on a headstone,
there, she sat in all her glory:
beneath the mourning shroud of faint bar lights.

Twirling a cigarette in her fingers,
she stared at her phone.

I remembered the elegance of the sunflower, lost,
and too compromised by the onlookers' sorrowful,
unappreciative eyes.

When she looked at me,
I thought about a few times she said
something about hating my alarm clock
and the size of my bed.
But, she slept in it every night for months.

Wiith fondness, I could hear her
stumbling up the steps to my apartment
shortly after dawn.

I could see the sunflower bent over the headstone,
reaching for the dirt.

I could smell the raspberry vodka on her breath
as she begged me not to get upset.

Everyone who passed the sunflower noticed it.
Some of them picked it up, briefly admired it,
then put it back.

I was sorry I couldn't live up to my first impression.