Carnations

Here.
I have uprooted the carnations from in my cheeks.
You can take them.
They have wilted and now bow in exhaustion:
Done with holding on for a sun that's no longer there
And drowning in the constant downpour of lukewarm salt water.
Their petals are scrunched-up, abandoned love notes,
Colours bled from magenta to champagne,
Stems flaccid and furrowed like a long-dead fierce snake
And pollen passed on, as a rumour, to flowers other than mine –
Nothing like they once were.
For me, now, they have no use.
But sometimes, they are momentarily revived,
Full-coloured, unfurled, and beaming bright
By the rhythm of your name
Leaking from a friend's lip
Or your face pressing against my mind.
So take them.
Please!
The carnations no longer belong to me.