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That no-name deli selling blue roses
reminded me of you and your eighth-grade self,
of nights spent warm against the cold
in a five-dollar sweatshirt and armed with the
knowledge that you loved me, of days spent
wondering how I lost my control
and sunburnt summer confessions.

These roses, they didn't seem dyed;
it was as if they grew up through cracked
glittering pavement and into perfect form
just a little bit different than the others.
Funnily enough, oddities usually bring
prices down; remnants sold in fabric shops
and dented cans of creamed corn are sold
for far less than half price because they aren't normal.

But the blue roses cost more than the red,
and maybe it was the magic of New York in summer
or the transformative power of memory,
but for just one moment in the continuum,
I was back in a snowstorm with you.