My friend dances on a stage covered in flower petals;
the Audience’s thanks for Their performance.
Their pointe shoes pick their way through the crowd of red and white roses
finding my soiled orange converse that complements the gray concrete floor.
I meant to give Them flowers today
at least fresh ones
but I had bought them a week before.
Not only do they wilt, but they crumple
curling like the ends of Their auburn hair
dried after sitting in the winter sun.
Without hesitation They snatch the bouquet from my shaking hands.
I blush, mumble, and excuse my inferior appearance
except they don’t care
They are just happy I am here.