Even now, I'm shaping my farewell into words.
I clutch your bundle of daisies with unsure
hands, my blood stumbling around clots of bitterness
that remind me I've had enough of your false promises.
My ears have grown too accustomed to your silence
to be deaf to the symbolism of wilting flowers.

I remind myself that, even though these flowers
were beautiful, they are no substitute for honest words.
This is something that you, so full of so much silence,
must know. Do daisies imply that you were unsure
words would suffice? You knew I wasn't asking for promises;
promises can be broken and always lead to bitterness.

I never wanted to remember you with bitterness.
I'm almost glad you brought me living flowers,
which will die and be forgotten long before promises
will fade from my memory. Even your words,
which always stumbled and were always unsure,
even they eventually lied their way into silence.

There is nothing quite as frustrating as silence
between us. Each moment of blossoming bitterness
makes speech seem all the more trembling and unsure,
all the more compromised. Sometimes, flowers
become an excuse, a reprieve from more false words.
Flowers are easier to nurture than promises.

Maybe you never intended to honor your promises,
and maybe I should have guessed, through your silence,
of her existence. You may have even used words
I didn't recognize then to describe her; my bitterness
is a terrible translator. Did you send her flowers?
Or did you allow her to remain, as I was, unsure?

I've begun to think there is an art to being unsure,
to placing faith in the transparency of promises.
Perhaps it is possible to defeat the trickery of flowers,
and maybe there are ways to circumvent silence,
but there is only one way to avoid bitterness:
believe that there is nothing permanent about words.

I will ask if you intend to bring her flowers,
and I will choke back the last of my bitterness,
for even now, I am shaping my farewell into words.