I think a bruised peony is only a keepsake. Then I meet the one who got away again at the midnight flower market.

I find you waiting inside the midnight flower market, exactly where memory puts you.

I feel rosewater along my wrist as you turn toward me.

I touch a bruised peony after your fingers leave it.

I hear my own pulse insist that I need to know whether we still exist.

I step closer when the seller wraps flowers for an address I do not know.

I ask whether you expected to see me tonight.

I feel your breath change beside the delivery alley.

I feel the old shape of your hand around my cold fingers.

I learn again that touch can outlive permission.

I ask for the truth of the one who got away without decoration.

I recognize the careful voice you use before hurting me.

I move a bruised peony between our hands like a boundary.

I hear every reason and search for one choice.

I realize that you kept my old letter unopened.

I let the truth land without bargaining.

I carry a bruised peony toward the delivery alley without looking back.

I feel your hand close gently around my sleeve.

I turn close enough to feel your breath.

I watch you choose whether to close the remaining distance.

I reach for you inside the midnight flower market, but you kept my old letter unopened.