a friend comes to visit and brings me a bunch of beautiful
white roses
breath-taking and sad in their final countdown to death
all the while as we talked, the flowers were dying
we went over old memories, pale and faded, like a garment overly
washed
we looked into each other’s hearts
knowing, and not knowing how the years passed
saying things with our hands, with our nods, with our eyes,
with our silences
and all the while the flowers were dying
our sadness, too big for the space we were in, too wide
for the moment we shared, scattering tiny shreds of torn-up
laughter
we couldn’t say how clever the mind was in trapping us in
how our abusive thoughts become a breathing Frankenstein
only the roses with their multilayered skirts knew, so
elegant in their endurance
all the while they were dying.
