For how many wilted white roses
and frayed silver ribbons,
might one purchase a modest affection?
How many tears,
fallen from the soiled nib
of a pen held like
a dying cigarette,
warrant an instant's embrace
in a stale, sun starved night?
The wind cares not for where it blows
but lightning avoids the
hopeless romantic,
sitting in a warm candle glow
beside a broken music box,
writing on a page as white
as ****** snow.
Tiny notes fall like drops
of spoiled honey,
while a deft hand waltzes
alone,
weaving a tapestry to
conceal the crack in the wall.
He's counting wilted white roses
and frayed silver ribbons,
before the locked doors of a store
long forgotten.