He gave me a single, short-stemmed rose
today:
a plastic one—but a rose all the same.
The fabric petals were discolored red;
frayed at the corners, with several loose
threads.
The plastic green stem was crooked and old;
the dusty, veined leaves resembled mold.
It was a pitiful sight—obviously cheap:
something you could easily buy at the street.
But being the poet that I am,
and being the poet that he is,
I was hoping for a poetic explanation for
this.
Perchance something along the lines of:
“When this withers, so will my love.”
But instead, all he said (which cannot be
ignored)
was, “Darling, forgive me. This is all I
could afford.”
-Nocturnal Scribe
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© Nocturnal Scribe, 2014
