Basking in the essence of second-hand roses.
Rescued from the refuse
Of an unforgiving lover.
Home now--
On the chipped enamel table
In this ask-no-questions motel room.
A murdered flush of nature
Does its death dance here.
And I dance too.
If I close my eyes
And cover my ears,
I can smell their heady perfume
Beyond the cigarette smoke and dope sweat.
Impossibly delicate petals
As soft as the skin I used to have.
Nestled in the cardinal fold of the blossom,
I’m safe from the man who hurls
obscenities while undoing his belt buckle.
Counting the
25,
26,
27 thorns on one shiny stem,
I stay in the vase with the roses
And not in the room with him.
For a while, I have a dozen friends.
Long-stemmed confidants
Who empathize while I wilt.
But friends don’t stay.
We whither and fade.
The roses and I.
Caving in on ourselves.
As the last petal falls from my borrowed blooms.
Hope takes a bow
and exits the room.
About the Creator
Waldo
Just a random human trying to remember that I used to love to write.
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