Now when I look at you,
I see your roses
untended,
burning in the sun,
petals falling to the ground
withered and brown.

The sun is my co-conspirator
and I cast no shadow
as we watch them burn.

I do not smile,
but nor will I spill
a drop of water
or even spit
on their thorny stems.

As though etched
on a tablet of stone,
this image persists,
and I have no hammer
to smash it to bits.