Book Of Firsts: Flowers To Cut Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

I pick up myself,
Away from the two warring seas,
Straight to the prolix world
Of tongues.
I plucked you out of my memory.
Your scent,
Your hair,
your french-tipped lacquer,
Your parting words,
And I coalesced them
With the soft drizzle upon my
Lithe skin.

I contacted a friend,
To purchase fresh cuts
Of flowers.
I do not know where you are,
But I know where you should be.
But I never told you,
Because the semantics are tired,
And the crowds confessed
Their peccadilloes.

Here, your fresh cuts
Of tulips.
My friend ran out of
Mauve tulips
So I had to give you
Tangerine ones,
And I rode the bus,
And the people said to themselves,
“This man is a fool.”
What good does it make?
I will brave their lewd eyes,
Straight to your doorstep
Into your windowpanes,
And dropp your fresh cuts.

But you weren’t home.
You were never home.