my hands are sticky, covered in the blood
of daffodils that you cut
and hand to me.
they overflow into my arms.
I clench their stems to me --
when I asked you why, you said it wasn't healthy
that they should wither on the stalk.

my dress is ruined, streaked with the tears
of daffodils that seem
too bright to be dead.
your hands move--
snipping another blossom and
handing it to me, your fingers never reach mine
nor your eyes