Materialism

Our flirtation is a 

history of shared objects. 

The apple you brought me, plucked from the orchard 

where you stained childish fingers 

and bruised elbows, climbing. 

The sketches I left in your room, abstract

representations of my longing. Lines and diagrams, concentric circles. I was not an artist 

but chose anyway 

to torture you with my obscurity 

and litter your desk with my love notes. 

You sat on the floor 

of my tiny apartment,

folding paper cranes 

out of post-its. You left my table littered 

with intricate paper sculptures;

origami was a reflex, they were not 

signs of your affection.

I placed them on my dresser, re-

arranged them. As if 

our hands were touching.

I still carry the broken  

heart you folded from scraps of wire. 

It is a scrap, a trinket, 

that serves as a reminder. 

The only letter I wrote you 

remains unopened. 

I had to pinch your nose

to get you to swallow it. 

The last gift you gave me, 

on the day we parted, 

was a daisy. You

left it on my desk 

to absorb the sunlight

and my roommate placed it in a glass of water. 

I tucked it 

behind my ear and 

let it wilt in my hair.