Marigolds, oh marigolds.

I wrote this short story poem thing and I really want to make it better but I don't know what to add or fix. Here it is:

The flowers died on a Monday.

I didn't get more. The first ones were too pretty. The flaming roses lasted a week. Tiger lilies lasted a week and a half. My orange tulips lasted four days.

On Tuesday I left the house. I went and got coffee, a cookie, and a book. At the book store I met a guy. He asked me out.

More flowers showed up on Wednesday. A favorite of mine, marigold. A note was left too. Feel better. Your love. 

On Thursday I left the house again. On a date to my favorite restaurant. He brought me flowers and I wore my fancy red dress. 

On a Friday we were engaged. On top of a mountain after a beautiful hike.

On a Saturday we were wed.

Then on a Sunday he passed. Grief a growing virus, controlling every aspect of what I did.

The flowers died on a Monday . . . . Then it starts over. 

Life as an immortal is hard, especially when everyone you love is cursed to die. 

That's why you never leave the house.

And why you don’t get marigolds. 

They're always bad luck.