Musings on Romantic Gestures

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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