Grey clouds dully shine upon wrinkly sheets,
And myself folded on it.
Reaching towards hands that have escaped mine.
It holds me back without effort,
The marks of my own creation,
Drawn by my own body upon the comforting tomb of satin sheets.
Yet I rise,
Something calls me still.
A familiar breeze calling my name, inching me away from this place.
This place — too small for two, or three or four,
At least that’s why I always said,
Standing in the hallway where we would get stuck,
Acting as the troll of the bridge,
Asking for the fare — always a kiss.
Now a space where I brush my shoulders on the falling wallpaper,
Decorated with flowers that were never your favorite.
Yet you still liked this place,
I always wondered why.
The vase that held the orchids you wanted,
Couldn’t hold up the orchid that slowly buckled over,
Each petal falling off,
Landing on the piles of stacked medical bills.
We never had a green thumb,
And I felt so bad at first.
All the different colored orchids that stayed in that vase,
Just because you couldn’t decide which one fit best.
“They were all pretty”, was your excuse,
“And they’re only two dollars and eighty-nine cents!” was mine.
We laughed, and laughed, and laughed,
Till only silence filled the house,
With the background of the wilting white orchid,
And the rays of the Sun coming from outside.
Outside, where sunlight rears its head,
Showering all with a blinding light,
Getting rid of the gray colors,
As well the similar colors that matched what rotted inside.
Alone, left to the squeals and laughter of all the happy folk,
And the Kids being sprinkled by the water hose,
And the Teenagers rolling down the sidewalk,
And the adults watching it all unfold.
They all watch each other,
As they enjoyed the beauty of outside,
One that I’d grown blind to,
Just as they are blind to me.
My head hangs like an anchor,
My mind like a buoy at deep sea,
People drift past me like schools of fish,
Yet none stop to talk,
To listen,
To be there.
But who am I to judge?
What do I have to give,
But a few coins and cash,
Worth little to busy people like these.
Busy, busy, busy.
Don’t they know that time is running out?
That all these moments and glee are to run out?
That when faced against the ticking of the clock,
Everything crumbles,
From Laughter, memories, people,
To love, beauty, and orchids.
All this that we see,
Merely has an invisible watch attached.
We only distract ourselves from that fact,
One that is ever present, once learned.
Yet, distractions still come,
Distractions we hold so dear,
Like laughing with your best friend,
Or holding the hand of a lover,
Or holding up the orchid with a purple hue
Oh, how It floats in my hand,
Dancing in the wind,
Drawing tears from my eyes,
Or At least what was left.
A single flower hung from the stem,
Begging to be cared for,
Longing for that vase,
To be the one that survived.
I smile until it hurts,
Cupping the pot in my hands,
Cradling it against my chest,
And present the flower to the cashier.
He looks at me,
His young, inattentive eyes dart across the screen,
No conversation, no care, all distracted.
Then, he spoke,
And the words I could not comprehend.
“Three dollars and twenty cents.”
A mistake, surely.
Surely, they wouldn’t have changed it.
It’s been so long,
So fucking long.
Then he repeated the words,
“Three dollars and twenty cents.”
It was nonsense.
Nonsense that rang in my head,
Blurring my vision with a watery lens.
I shakingly reach for my pocket,
Taking out three quarters,
A dime,
Four pennies,
And two dollars.
The orchid petals inch towards me,
Searching for my gaze,
As if it already knew.
“I’m sorry sir,
That’s not enough.”
My blood turns blue,
Yet my body stops shaking.
I look up,
Meeting the eyes of just another boy,
Just following the crowd,
Distracted, as always.
The orchid sits at the counter,
Straying further and further,
Away from the house,
Away from her,
Away from me.
Maybe it’s meant to be like this,
To be reminded of the invisible clock.
I just wish I was distracted a bit more,
By the orchid with the purple hue.
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