----

On the far corner of the window
sits a solitary rose -
medium-sized
pale-red
short-stemmed.
It sits there listening,
stands breathing -
sweet, bitter air
clear, hazy air
slow, rapid air.

Red was its color.
A hundred times I held it.
A pure thing of soft head
and innocent, prickly legs.

Smelled it.
Held it.
Cradled it.
Cradled it.

Pure, red rose
bathing in near-white light
when the sun came up,
peeking from the window bars
altering all colors into a sea of red.

All red.
Heaving.
Swimming.
Swimming.

Dusk came up and snatched away
its innocent face
landscaped in smooth cheeks
of beautiful scented red.

Shrivelled.
Chipped at the sides.
Almost shrivelled.
Almost chipped at the sides.

Overlooking the night
is a soltary rose -
head stuck in your wordless bottle,
feet dangling in my dried-up ocean,
emptying itself in a cursed vase.
It still sits there,
still stands there -
breathing
sensing
unwavering.