Bouquets

Bouquets of lost steps
sit on my night table.
I haven't watered them
in what seems like days now.
They are wilted little impressions
of dry and dusty ground.
I used to walk with you
when we were younger,
and in bloom
but I cut those steps
from the ground
to place in my vase.
I wanted them to sing me to sleep.
Maybe I knew
that you'd eventually stop walking
and wanted to preserve
one small thing before you did.
But even my sunny hope
couldn't stop the truth
from making those steps lost.
Like flowers, dead now.
Steps, dead now.

You're dead now.