Wildflower

Dingy rooms and beige window shades,
The ticking clock knocking against the silence.
Wrinkles carved on aged faces like ravines, riverbeds
emptied of the taut motion of hope and youth - whisky
in a glass you wouldn't touch, conversations in translation,
in transit. Fragments of lives offered to each other over
salted peanuts in shadowy bowls, and fried snacks -
the evening rises and falls on the shore of music,
voices piercing through darkness and time. I'm so far,

and a tumour blossoms in you like a wildflower.

Memories are suddenly bruises instead of roses,
Petals sticking to skin and bones in angry shades of red.
I'm afraid, and I don't know why. You were my understanding
of age, my hope and my dejection about time, my life wrapped
around a house and a family. You smell of home, of comfort
and cold cream, of perfume and carefully chosen nailpaint,
of the kitchen and the garden, of books and the upholstery
you got changed every month to match the furniture well.
I'm afraid,

because of you, because of me, because everything we knew
is tied in delicate threads to each other and to promises
that aren't as sacred as you believe them to be, and I swear,
the understanding leaves scars that shine like lightning
on rainy nights - do you know

because I know. I'm learning. I'm trying. I remember
the time I made you a card because I didn't know how else
to tell you I was angry, you had ruined a childish game and
I didn't know how to forgive you because I didn't understand.
I think it comes with time. I forgive you now.

I'm afraid of death. Forgive me. I'm afraid.