I first brought her carnations

as overture, a prelude,

then roses –

red as the ink my heart bled for her,

then dark chocolate of desire.

Her smiles remained glassy.

I gave her painted china dolls,

crystal vials,

captured spirits.

I gave devotion, desperation.

I gave her looks.

I gave her words.

Yet still her eyes retained that flickering

as of candle in a window

with  the shutters drawn behind.

And so I  brought her lilies,

pure and white,

an epilogue.

And  then  I brought a silver knife –

the only gift accepted wholly,

now stained with blood as red

as mine –

as the ink my heart once bled for her.

Let me keep it, if you may.