red roses

there was a time
when you left
roses
for her.
at her work, at
home.
you were always
apologizing for
something you
did, or didn't do.
flowers
seemed the way
to go
at that young age.
the florist knew
you by name,
smiling and shaking
her head
as you came
through the door,
looking glum
as you took out
your credit card.
same address, she'd
say. roses?
and you'd nod.
same note?
same girl?
yup, you'd say.
you had to marry
her to finally
end things.