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.