My love,
you are a rose in a locked room
with antique furniture
and curtains that cover windows, half-open.
They are stained yellow from years of sun
and cigarette smoke.
You rooted yourself here to protect your petals from grubby hands
that wanted to pry you outward
and color your thorns red.

A sparrow calls out, and you turn toward the sun
that makes itself known in bright stripes.
The light causes you to gleam brilliantly
despite the dust,
despite the silence,
despite the fear that you wear
like a winter tarp.

Your first instinct is to reach out and join
the light and the birdsong,
but you remain
because your stem is brown and splintered.
And anyway,
only this room knows your name.