He buys me roses that I forget to put in water
Once again too caught-up
In my tangled and scattered thoughts
They’re beautiful but
A little too pink
As if they’ve got pricked
On a poison spindle
Performing an idea
Of everlasting beauty
I know soon enough they’ll be wilted
And that’s probably why I don’t water them
So I won’t be disappointed
When the petals start to fall
On the windowsill, never responsible,
Or trapped in watching
Things fading away
Staying the enemy
Of any broken thing
Image courtesy of Annie Spratt.