I have two roses,
rich and red,
dripping fragile tears
onto my fingers,
slipping, sliding,
falling, crying,
over my knuckles,
pooling together
in the curve
of my palms.
Resting, rolling slightly
‘round and ‘round
in the dip of my hands.

I take the weeping roses
and hang them
upside down
above the window
where they used to stand erect
and flourish
in the sunlight
that now quietly filters
through the glass
catching dust motes;
stretching forward,
then receding,
blurring with blind purpose,
leaving crimson puddles
and soft edged memories
behind.

One rose for each of us,
so many tears
for our loss,
silently stripping
away all their color
till they become
faded,
brittle
only dusty petals
to remind me
of the love
I wish we still had.

Sighing,
I step away
from the roses,
the starlight dreams,
away from the blood red stains
and the sickening sweet smell
of decaying garden flowers
blowing in from a place
I will never go.

I turn away
and huddle
in the safety
of familiar things
like pink patterned wall paper;
and those roses,
so much in love,
still hang
from above my window
crying.