a dozen red roses

they knew me,
the florists down the street
from my one bedroom
apartment
on Brinkley road.
they knew my name,
the name
of the hurt party
that I was intending
to make
amends with by buying
a dozen roses
with babys breath
and a heartfelt
angst written note
always ending with
the words. I love you.
they could see the weariness
in me,
with my one credit
card, my weakened state,
unable to eat. my darkened eyes.
the last notch of my
belt holding up my jeans.
did they take pity
and sit me down and say give
up on this girl, no.
they never did.
they arranged the flowers.
they wrote the note.
they delivered them
then waited
for the next time.