You put a marigold in an empty shot glass.
I woke up, freezing.
January had always been.
I look on the table.
There is a marigold flower.
In an empty shot glass.
A note in your trademark writing, left under it.
I sit down at the table.
Clutching your note.
I thought of the implications.
If someone were to walk in and see me sat at the table.
Me and the marigold.
My age would show, as if it were scrawled onto my skin.
Young enough to drink the sins.
Young enough to waste a perfectly good flower.
Whoâ€™s to say that they are wrong?
They will think what theyâ€™ll think.
But you left that marigold for me.