The Rose Behind the Last Page

The cafe light still leans like soft regret,

where steam once curled between our elbows, thin and sweet —

the day you walked in, navy‑blue and salt‑kissed,

your coat still carrying the sea’s cold beat.

You were the sailor come from tides unknown,

whose eyes held dawns I’d never dared to meet.

You pulled the chair where sunlight used to fall,

spoke slow, as if the world had paused its rush;

the clock ticked soft behind the shelf of jars,

and every breath felt like a secret hush.

Then from your pocket — folded, fresh‑unwound —

a rose, deep‑crimson, where your warm palm had been found.

“For the days I cannot stay,” you said, and smiled,

“till the sea lets me turn my ship toward home.”

I held it close, as if it held your breath,

while outside wind began to roam and roam.

We sipped our coffee till the cup grew cold,

and traced faint lines where our two hands had rolled.

When you stood up to leave, the sky turned grey —

your ship was waiting down the harbour way.

You touched my cheek, said “keep it safe for me”,

then turned to walk where grey waves meet the sea.

I watched your figure fade into the haze,

and clutched that rose through all the lengthening days.

First it bloomed bright, its petals soft and full —

then sun and time began to gently pull

the colour out, the softness slip away;

edges turned brown, scent faded day by day.

Still I would hold it, breathe where fragrance was,

and trace each vein where memory never does.

I did not throw it when its bloom was gone.

I found my diary — pages written on

with quiet hopes, with dreams and half‑said prayers —

turned to the last blank page, where no‑one shares

the things we hide from every passing eye,

and laid the dried rose there, beneath the sky

of paper‑stillness, folded soft and tight,

to keep the light we caught that café night.

Now when the evening shadows stretch and lean,

I open where that faded bloom is seen —

thin, brittle‑petalled, red turned dusty‑brown,

but still the mark of where your love was known.

I run my finger down its shrunken curve,

and hear your voice, as if you still were here:

“Wait for me. The sea will let me turn.”

Some nights I sit where harbour breezes blow,

and watch the waves that come and go, and go —

I think of you on decks beneath the stars,

where salt‑wind tangles through your uniform.

Do you remember how the café glowed?

The steam, the rose, the words we barely showed?

Do you still carry some small thought of me,

across the wide, unquiet rolling sea?

They say the tide forgets what it has known —

but I have kept our promise, stone‑by‑stone.

My diary’s last page holds more than flower‑dust:

it holds the pause before the sea’s long trust.

It holds the hope that sails through fog and spray,

that somewhere far, you turn toward my day.

The rose is dry, it will not bloom again —

but every crease still breathes that moment’s zen.

I do not ask for grand or shining things —

only the step where your returning brings

your navy coat, your salt‑wind‑tousled hair,

to find me waiting, where we first were there.

Till then I keep it safe, last page held close,

my quiet vow, my faded crimson rose.