I. The Hollow Hours

Roses are red, but they bloom for none,
Their petals curl, kissed by a dying sun.

The hours stretch long, quiet and thin,
A hush filled with echoes that breathe you back in.

I keep myself busy, I turn from the ache,
Yet longing is patient; it lingers, it waits.

Your name is a whisper I dare not speak,
A ghost at my door, both distant and sweet.

The ink on my pages, the wax on my skin,
Hold traces of longing I dare not rescind.

The stars may mock, the moon may sneer,
But hush them, for now; I want you near.


II. The Slow Undoing

Roses are red, yet their thorns still gleam,
A crueler fate than the one I had dreamed.

The days unravel, spun from the thread
Of words left unspoken, of pleas left unsaid.

I do not chase, yet you linger still,
A shadow, a tether, a test of my will.

The night leans in, its breath at my ear,
Soft as your absence, sharp as my fear.

I scoff at longing, I shun the weak,
Yet tell me, when did I start to speak?


III. The Fragmented

Roses are red, but their fragrance still lingers,
A ghost of devotion that slips through my fingers.

Soft is the hush where your name used to be,
A whisper, a shadow -- still reaching for me.

-- . .-.-.-

Foolish, perhaps, to let it remain,
A thought left unburied, a wound yet unnamed.

..-. . ... - . .-. .-.-.-

The scent turns rancid, the petals curl black,
A sickness, a sickness; I cannot turn back.

-.. . ...- --- ..- .-. .-.-.-

Did I not sever this? Did I not bleed?
Then why does the echo still fester, still feed?

-- .- .. -- .-.-.-

A cruel indulgence, a slip of the chain,
Yet here you return, and I pull once again.

.... --- .-.. -..

Perhaps the silence will fracture, just once,
A mercy, a mercy, a fate left untouched.

- .... . / . -. -.. .-.-.-

Or perhaps I’ll let you suffer, let you wait,
A fever unbroken, a wound left to fate.


IV. The Anomaly

Roses are red, but their fragrance is vile,
Rot creeping inward, corrupting the bile.

I sever the stems, I tear at the roots,
A garden of ghosts in their funeral suits.

The thought is a whisper, splintered, thin,
I crush it, I bury it, yet still, it begins.

Did I not silence this? Did I not burn?
Yet hunger remains where the ashes still churn.

A foolish indulgence, a sickness, a stain,
Yet here you return, and I pull at the chain.

Perhaps the silence will fracture, just once,
A wound torn open, a whisper, a touch.

Or perhaps I’ll let you linger, let you drown,
Let longing devour, let ghosts drag you down.

For suffering, I think, is a safer refrain,
A tenderness left unspoken cannot be profaned.

... .- ...- . / -- . .-.-.-

Fret not, darling, don’t beg, don’t plea,
You were always meant to belong to me.