Roses are red,
except when they droop in a mug
on my paper-filled desk.
Too dry to be wilted,
they crumble at my touch,
a journal in blue-brown dust:
Last Valentine’s Day,
I bought myself roses.
Roses are red,
except when they droop in a mug
on my paper-filled desk.
Too dry to be wilted,
they crumble at my touch,
a journal in blue-brown dust:
Last Valentine’s Day,
I bought myself roses.
