He Could Leave You Tomorrow

He buys me roses; I forget to put them in water,
once again too caught-up
in my tangled and scattered thoughts.
They’re beautiful but
– a little too pink
as if they’ve got pricked
on a poisoned spindle
performing an idea
of everlasting beauty.
I know soon enough they’ll be wilted
and that’s probably why I don’t water them,
so I won’t be disappointed
when the petals start to fall
on the windowsill – never responsible –
or trapped in watching
things fading away,
remaining the enemy
of any broken thing.