Stolen Roses
With skin and lips
All dry and chapped
From swimming,
I slept and fell
Into a dream
Of an infinite desert —
On the vast plain of athirst sand
I had lost my phone and was
Unable to call you,
My sloppy tears became an oasis
Of sorts, lazy streams of depression
Pooling on the parched, arid
Desert of my face.
With nothing left to lose,
I went on a search
For the impossible —
Flowers.
Looking for love in the dust,
The landscape transformed
Into a cold, gray, November day.
Scissors appeared in my hand
And I made my way
To a dead, dirty garden
By the side of a road
Where three little rosebuds
Were holding back, shying away
From blossoming (or dying, perhaps).
I cut them, ran back home,
And put them in
A soda bottle on the windowsill,
Where they’ve bent their drying heads
To the sun in the window,
Their one shared stem,
Swimming, sipping,
Satisfied.
