They were delivered last Wednesday. Late in the afternoon,
young man in a green cap.
Fumbled the flower box while finding tip money.
Inside lay twelve perfect peach roses, my favorite color.
Creamy, ripe and bursting with life. Overwhelming
spicy scent. God's perfection in velvety petals.
I place them on my desk. An ignominious spot for
such beauty. An indictment upon the one that sent them?
They remain there one week. Aroma filling the air
with the scent of death, decay. A relationship I
must end. Beauty has a limited life as do some
love affairs. This one reeks of roses.
The petals are withered, brown veins travel the length.
Edges sadly curling, heads droop. Dripping their
life onto the desk. I never did tell him I despise roses.
I never told him anything.
Beauty and despair, often hand in hand.
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