“Why do you always bring me flowers…”
“Because I love you.”
“…from the cemetery?”
“Because they don’t need them.”
“And why are they always dead?”
“Because we don’t like to bury people alive these days.”
“I mean the flowers. Why are the flowers always dead?”
“I guess because dead people don’t care if the flowers are alive or not.”
“I mean…why don’t you bring me alive flowers?”
“Where would I get live flowers?”
“Maybe a flower shop!”
“But the flowers are already dead there, too. They just look alive. But they are dying the moment they’re cut off.”
“But they don’t look dead. Why don’t you bring me flowers that look alive?”
“Because that’s a terrible metaphor.”
“Why does it have to be a metaphor?”
“Aren’t flowers always a metaphor?”
“Sometimes they’re just pretty.”
“So is a sunrise, but I don’t bring you that.”
“You couldn’t bring me a sunrise.”
“So is a butterfly, but I don’t bring you that.”
“Touché.”
“And sometimes flowers are not metaphoric at all: ‘Here are some genitalia for you to put on your table.’”
“But what’s the metaphor for flowers?”
“‘Our relationship looks pretty, but really it’s dying a slow, painful, smelly death.’”
“But what’s the metaphor for the flowers that you bring me?”
“‘My love will still exist, even when you’re ugly, dried up, and/or dead.’”