Swept the last strands of

Fresh cut hair

Locked the door

And went down the stairs



Slight vibration

On my left rib

Pulled the phone out

From underneath my barber's bib



Heard your tone

The regret and shame

Said you would leave me

For what's-his-name



Pounded the end button

Went straight home

Settled in my bed

And put down my phone



Two hours later

Puffy eyes and stuffy nose

Looked in the mirror

Grabbed my skin hose



Five hours later

Sore arms and wet napkins

Moist from not just

My lacrymose chin



My salty reflection

Stares back at me

Shame and guilt

Guilt and glee

Craving for light, 
The little rose sways.
Within aching petals,
Captured: are the gentle rays.

Shaking the biting winds away.
Pretending a crow's whispers are at bay. 
All the while, 
Memories replay;
Increasing its thorns day by day. 

Upon the nights that draw too close
Amongst stars reluctant to share solemn glow. 
The little rose, it heeds their call.
Slowly...
Surely...

Abandoning bloom.

Yes, but certainly the sun will always rise.
Just as it is destined to set.
Acknowleging the subtle difference,
Is something the rose now neglects. 

Lacrymose, it laments till' morning dew.
Singing songs of times long forgotten. 
Blinded by sorrow, 
Imprisoned by gloom.
The rose—oh so sweet,
Yet so faint,
Seeks out such selfish warmth.

Privy, it sways towards the sky.
Clouds above are cautioned by these crimes.
Despite it all, the rose does not care.

Nor will it ever again.