This Morning

I should have tossed the roses he sent
washed the vase of the stench
soaped and scrubbed it clean-
that kind of end to it.
Not this chitchat in bed-
the blinds left open,
the sun coming through.
Light cuts holes in the dark
revealing his skin,
the rise and fall of his chest.
Light stretches across a room
"You seem fragile," he says
and I cannot bear the glimpse of his beard
or his new, expensive shoes.