A Rose

Crimson stains on toilet paper
Spilling from the wastebasket
Swept with yester-years of grief,

the longing of the mouse for the cat
that moved away,
the previous owner of the house

packing items in labeled cardboard boxes,
the thorns pressing against numb and frigid fingers,
the petals hanging like childrens' melancholic heads,

curved lips, waving hands, a promise to maybe return
someday;
no more pain as the grip tighten, enough to fully let go;

how with these tainted white sheets
you shielded your coughs to save me,
succumbed to yourself with the tiny bits of cheese

free for the taking;
how pointless it seemed to continue living
when the thrill of the chase has black-and-blue thighs.

Note:

To my wife;
For what could've been
If I hadn't messed up.