Pink and Black Roses
Sent at the end of June,
flowers nourished in ice water.
Sent in haste, delivered by strangers.
Should have walked the miles to feel the thorns in my feet but the discomfort of heartbreak is hard to replicate.
So, I send you pink and black roses, nourished on fire water.
Pretending I still know you, when all I know is a ghost.
I sent you a remnant of my heart,
the voice of night imprisoned in a petal,
from tear to earth, born as a rosebud.
What kind of light appeases the radiant bride?
Reminding me of lost summers; where lovers never kissed
& windows stay closed.
The groom covering his trail of lies with artificial flowers; manufactured elegance, taut & ridiculously pretty, a token of fraudulent love.
Do you know who sent you the real roses that watch you sleep?
Breathing life into your heart, reminding you that you’re alive unlike the plastic ones that stink of rubber and strawberries.
Imprisoned in its vase, is a rose still a rose when it dies?
Or is there just an unused vase; waiting to be filled?
When starved of light, does a rose contemplate death?
I wonder, does it wish to be free, out in the evening breeze?
What should I call this skeleton of beauty?
Its grace transformed to blackened confetti; my shredded hope.
If I were to retrieve my unwanted gift,
on this suffering night, in my hands, it would crumble.
I would destroy it, like you said I would.
Better to let it just turn to nothing in its decorated prison.
I do think of it often; its familiar ending is the hook in my heart
Copyright © 2019 by Adrian Calloo
All rights reserved.
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