Rose Peddler,
red plastic petals replace the wine
in the bottle from your first visit.
I don't buy real ones
I can afford neither
to keep such a precious thing alive,
nor to see it die.
So I make a keepsake of our love
Because we are fake.
But we are also forever.
YOU ARE READING
Black Box
PoetryOriginal poems, much like a plane's black box, documenting the moments leading up to an explosive disaster.
