The bouquet of carnations was a little too red,
straining towards the light, trying a little too hard to be roses;
they smelled as sweet, but the lie was there.
I remember you gave me roses once.
I can’t remember why, but the intention was there,
But I never liked those flowers:
They lived a little too long,
smelled a little too much like a late proclamation,
looked a little too beautiful after a week of neglect.
But the chocolates you gave me were lovely.
I didn’t eat them.
Perhaps I should have,
but I hate to get my blood sugar up.
I don’t want to get carried away as a result,
lest you think I’m trying too hard.