I threw the wilted tulips right out my window.
He watched, promptly put white roses in their place.
How he searched for approval on my face!
He told me he had sensed those old were dying;
I knew it was guilt and guile that filled the vase.
Three years, willing, waiting, with nothing to grow,
I told him, with my tears to water gone to waste.
Mistook he the request made by my embrace.
And oh, how easy flowers make disguising
That he knows no other rot he ought replace.
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