midnight musings

the dead get roses

you'll hand me the bouquet of bursting swirling reds.

i'll hold my breath.

i'll imagine my body lying lifelessly still in the gift box to the grave.

and how you'll hand me the same flowers.

only that time i won't be able to sniff them for their familiar perfume,

or feel the soft petals,

or prick myself on the protruding thorns.

the flowers will wither quickly, and beauty will drain out of them.

i am no different from the roses.