She swore she’d never accept them. Never
again. Cheap gesture to grant forgiveness.
Never again. Never again. Forty quid to buy
atonement, making it all better. Card stiff,
scribed with florist’s hand. Itemised on his
end-month Visa bill. Permanent financial
record of a plastic redemption self-served.
Evidence unseen of his voicemails deleted,
his slaps denied and punches drunk down.
She owns and drowns in every second he’s
forgetting. She needs and grieves for time
and those dead bouquets. She promises…
Never again. Never again. And then, they
come. To her door. Unexpected, unasked
for. Florist’s hand, sorry again. Roses bleed.