Fiction Friday: Eleven Roses

Eleven roses lay
scattered on the ground
a twelfth never to be found
the blood leaking out
matching the petals perfectly,
killing you slowly
a white baseball hat
with a hand print of red
because I cant believe you’re dead
the rain pours down
but the blood stays
as the sun tries to break through with feeble rays
bits of light
glint off your eyes
as they stare unseeing at the skies
my cheeks burn with tears
and I loosen my hold
as your skin turns cold
eleven roses scream the story is incomplete
the petals and blood mix in a flood
the white hat lilts on your head proving you’re dead
it’s still raining but it can’t wash the images away
sunshine struggles to bring hope and ways to cope
and I’m crying because I didn’t mean to give up trying
eleven roses sit by my bed
like you, they’re dead
the hat sits there too
I’m working on pulling through
I haven’t washed that hand print away
but it gets easier to look at everyday
