Cemetery Flowers

The cemetery flowers you gave me as a birthday present, 
I still keep them with me.
A cheap calla flower bouquet.
She was tied to a box of sticky chocolates.
From the 24/7 supermarket right next to my windowsill.
Waiting for some supernatural sunbeam to shine on.
Maybe I want to transform some flowers into a companion.
Reminding me of how life used to taste when things always seemed perfect.

It is two in the morning.
Outside, the world is quiet as the leftovers of fried chicken in my oven.
Inside it isn't much better anyway.
Just a silent conversation with mister X.
He used to live in my head.
Tonight, he doesn't want to talk with me, as I study the headlines.
Some melting ice, fighting civilisation, and pictures of dying trees.

Whispering with the TV, sing along with my new coffee cup.
They do not want to speak. Neither one reach out to me.
The ticking clock went to sleep earlier today.
Dinner for two, me and my new pair of teddy-bear shoes.

I feel your white blossoms staring at me.
Waiting to gleam through.
Ready to stay awake, for a small talk with some shortbread and the chocolates you gave me.
"I do not like your reminder of my mortality with each of your leaves."
"It feels like some skin-inked truths."

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