His eyes slowly opens,
from what he thought
was a long wanted dream.
A wet feeling swept his hand.
Hoping the last picture was,
not soaked in his tears.
The picture was;
Not wet
Nor a picture.
But a bright crimson rose.
The last of his lover, gone.
Confused
Angry
frustrated
He began to tear at the petals,
hoping to bring to it the same loneliness he felt.