Flowers, Always

Inexplicable, the sign outside a deli scrawled with FLOWERS and below that: ALWAYS. But there were no flowers. And I have never seen an Always. I would like to, and I have looked. I have kept my eye keen for Always, have liked its idea like an expensive purse, coveting it as it appears, riding the arms of rich ladies who are so very lady.                      I've rolled on velvet cushions where I heard Always slept, and I once tried to kiss Always, but I don't think it was the Always I was looking for. I like your Always, it looks such a demanding pet. It looks like it kisses nice and soft. It looks like the bruise I found flowering on my knee. I fell down at your voice. Not to worry, I got right back up, walked ten more blocks and by then I was halfway home. I knock my knees blue and scabbed crawling toward you, wanting flowers, and always, always, always to slide against the cold vinyl of a car's seat, your pale hands on the bare backs of my legs, that's one Always I want, and whoever knew there were so many species of Always? Your bare hands on the pale backs of my thighs, printing bruise, and if you said Flowers, said Always and we could erect a forever of something like sheets and breakfast and an ordinary day, my eyes would always slide across the table toward you, to warm their twin marbles in your palm, my face would flower for you daily, so that when we die, roses might petal themselves out our throats.