Jul 20, 2017 · 1 min read

It’s sometimes hard to tell: tears may fall
at night they fell
from her lashes
now — puddles filled with rain
I stick roses in them, so they bloom
in calm, rose pallets
stretching their arms out to you
mumble, as they awake
gently, she opens her eyes
“goodbye”, she says, she cries
another storm
this, too, will pass
your roses are all grown
their laughter is filling the air
hot, condensed — a miracle
but, sadly, I am not there
