i'm the camelia

i notice your denim skirt

black plasticky clogs

your hair tied up

as you lean over the recycling bin

we hold hands

on the 10 second walk home

our hands remember

the way

you make fun

i can't differentiate

a sweater from a sweatshirt

for that matter

many greens from many reds

flowers from flowers

the jokes don't hurt

your hand never anything but soft

i feel you smiling

and the scattered roses i spy

in the courtyard aren't roses

and they've always been there

even the one outside

our bedroom window 

i'm the camelia

you say