through lust you fast

I don't care about the flowers but I care about their journey to me down a conveyor belt at the grocery store after you clocked out of work, gingerly scanned by a cashier with long unkempt hair concealing their name tag, carried up your icy steps, petals protected by a plastic casing that rustles against your beard, set in plain sight on your coffee table surrounded by acrylic paints and empty Modelo's.

I don't care about the orchids on splints two days past Valentine's Day but I care about how you reach for me in the dark when our bodies are no longer playful and the sound of the highway drowns out our breathing, renders the endless night to a strained fugue, a half-dried painting of desire, the only love I can readily entertain makes me search your hair for grays and wake hungry sucking on your thumb.