red roses

we used to sit in our rose garden, beneath the stars and moonbeams your kiss was of sweet honey a touch of your skin so soft would blur my eyes we would ride our white horse between the fog-lift and sunrise and picnic where the stream bent though the grassy valley we loved collecting floral perfumes and red lipsticks, and we’d take pictures of ourselves in our bed of fresh rose petals

i’m losing myself in the window’s curtains as they unfold themselves in the wind a storm has begun—not bolts of passion this time it rains phantoms and onions…without you the clock unwinds itself as the roman numerals begin to melt together our creaking house seems to speak to me, as i  empty our bottles of stale perfume, knowing you’ll never return

still waiting for you, is our white horse… the same horse that we used to ride, beneath the moon… the same moon that has spilled dried, red rose petals, from the  bed onto the floor… the same floor upon which you used to stand… now empty, with only splinters to keep me company

the honey is gone, and the  stream that bends through the valley has turned to poison i am forever saddened that you went away… on an eternal rest…without me i look up and imagine you’re floating past the stars and moonbeams… but i’m without you i found our old photographs— now nothing but antique memories of black and white dust i shall melt our red lipstick in sorrow and never leave our  crimson garden knowing that you’ll forever lie upon a throne of  tombstones and red roses