I keep your flowers on the windowsill

you creep into my bones on wintry mornings
while the light tiptoes its way across my white bedsheets and
I recall Bukowski in my head claiming love like
serious illnesses

while I smuggle earl grey
tea in between the lips of December promises and
wonder how you recover from love that spills
into your coffee cup or if

love is even love if
it requires recovering from.