black roses wilted on an indented bed,
a sheen of sweat on the back of your neck,
a frayed photograph on the empty wall.

there's a strange sound coming from outside my window -
is it the wind or is it, is it me?
trying to get back in, trying to return -
begging to be invited back into its heavy body.

i'm not scared easily,
but i was scared the day you left.
i'm not scared easily,
but i was scared the day you returned.

a flash of light outside my window -
a growl of thunder that demands your attention even while dreaming -
i think it's beginning to rain.

did i mention that it rained on the day you came back?
i'm scared now.
it might be time to get the roses off my bed.