In that kitchen
the flowers were dying.
they needed water
much more than I.
or at least that's what you said to me
upon shuffling through the pots and pans.
I closed the tap and turned around and would have splashed this water into your face.
but instead I tilted the glass back and drank it myself.
I'm not like that.
that kitchen is not your kitchen.
and it's time for you to go.
Even though I'm dreaming of you squeezing fresh garlic into a pan of oil that bubbles "I love you, I miss you, I want you."
and all the birds are singing to me, "where is he?"
I reply "chirp, chirp, chirp!"
I haven't swept today.
my flowers are too healthy.
and really, so am I