By Tia Ramos
The moments when you hold me with your face in my neck and your fingertips on my back rolling onto your knuckles were on my mind when I picked that flower for you in the park. I like how your sweet dryer-sheet smell moves to my skin and all I need to do is curl my nose into my upper arm and that flower’s stem was kind of bending into itself the same way I bend into you.
I carried that yellow flower with me to the lawn and I placed it in my sandals to protect it from the unleashed dog and then Pato put the flower in the headphone hole on my phone and then when the park was closing I held it in my hand back out to the street and on the train and in the bathroom and at dinner and I put it down on my desk determined to keep it until I saw you left me a yellow sticky-note. I picked it back up and brought it to your door and then took you under that yellow-pink light in your room to show you how the green stem looks and our ears are pink-red and you’re looking so good in white and we’re standing close I can smell your sweet dryer-sheet skin and I’m running back to those knuckle moments looking at this yellow flower but I become distracted by the febreeze coming from the hallway. You thank me for the gift and this time you don’t scold me for killing the rare new-born nature.
The next day, you ask to eat lunch with me and you place a smaller, already-weakening yellow flower on the table and apologized for its short dying span. Forsythia, you say.