Flowers

The flowers he gave me
Died on the window ledge,
In the sunlight.
Their petals fell
Till the sweetness
Was replaced,
With the bitter scent
Of decay.

With the window,
Slightly open
The breeze touched
Their brittle leaves
And shifted fallen colours
Into motion.

A bird above
Sang a song for their demise.
Its gentle tone
Reaching down to
My window pane,
Recalling greener pastures,
Which,
Never die.