I am a woman who plucks wildflowers and places them in vinyl vases that sit by the windowsill. I watch them drink sunlight but still they wilt like my soul as I wait for you. In another life you stole flowers from their homes because they stole your breath. You plucked them without remorse and handed them to me to pocket. I partook in your crimes and in turn handed you the ones that caught my eye. You kept all of them. Wildflowers and skin pressed between pages to dry. Roses. Dandelions. Leaves. Little sunflowers. Our findings from prairies. From fields we roamed. From the streets where I watched you walk in dusk light. From the supermarkets, from the florists, from our backyards, and on the side of the road. I might have imagined that you returned home with a bouquet bundled in love and twine for me. The flowers rested most beautiful most peaceful together. It was only my imagination that you returned from gold fields. The sun setting at my windowsill we’ll get it right in another life.