A bunch of cheap flowers, a window, a throwing arm: the title hands us a whole scene before the poem proper begins. Supermarket flowers are the kind bought in a hurry, a small gesture meant to brighten a room or mend a mood. Throwing them out suggests the gesture has failed. Then the poem itself never mentions flowers, windowsills or supermarkets. The single word «darkness» sits beneath the title, and the ten lines that follow talk only about a feeling. That gap is worth noticing. Judging by the title, the speaker has tried a small, practical fix and has given up on it, and the poem explains why it couldn't work.
The explanation is simple and bleak. The darkness "has not gone yet" because "I can't get you out of my head." The speaker's trouble is not the room or the weather but a person lodged in their thoughts. This links back to the title. Flowers can be thrown out of a window, but the "you" of the poem cannot be thrown out of a head. The speaker then names what this person brings: "pain and fear," and finally "darkness" itself. The poem's central idea is a painful contradiction. The speaker knows the cure ("Until we forget each other") and still refuses it: "I don't want to forget you / And I don't know why."
The construction is spare. There is no rhyme and no regular metre, and the poem has no punctuation at all, not even a full stop at the end. The thoughts arrive unfiltered, and the lines stop where a breath would stop. Their lengths vary. "It won't" is only two words and lands like a door closing. The line before it, "I want it to stop," is a wish, and the two-word reply refuses it. The pronoun is ambiguous: "it" could be the darkness, the pain, or the remembering itself, and perhaps the speaker no longer separates them.
Repetition does much of the work. The second line almost repeats the first, but "has not gone" becomes the more casual "hasn't gone," and a reason is added. It is as if the speaker begins with a flat statement and then, pressed by their own mind, explains. "You bring pain and fear / You bring darkness" is a pair of parallel lines, a small litany. The repeated "You bring" makes the other person the active force, while the speaker is left with verbs of helplessness and wanting: "can't," "want," "don't know." The word "darkness" appears in the first, second and fourth lines of the body, and the word "gone" appears twice, so the poem circles the same few words the way a troubled mind circles the same few thoughts.
The imagery is thin on purpose. "Darkness" is never given a shape, a colour or a place, so it can't be fenced off or described away. It is just there, the way a mood is. Even "pain and fear" are abstract nouns with nothing concrete attached. The one physical image is "out of my head," which treats the mind as a room with an unwanted, or perhaps unwantable, occupant.
The turn comes at "But the thing is." It is plain, chatty and a little hesitant, the phrase of someone about to admit something awkward. Up to this point the poem has been building an argument: the other person causes the darkness, so forgetting would end it. The turn knocks that argument down. The final line begins with "And," so the poem seems to trail off rather than conclude, and the speaker offers no reason and no solution.
That honesty is what gives the poem its force. It doesn't say the speaker loves the other person, and it doesn't say they hate them. It admits that someone can be the source of hurt and still be something one cannot bear to lose. Anyone who has held on to a memory that hurts will recognise the feeling. The poem doesn't explain or tidy it, and the title's discarded flowers suggest why: some feelings can't be thrown out of a window.