Red

 

There is a single flower

Lying on your doorstep—

A single flower,

Red as desire.

 

You pick it up

With a tenderness like velvet—

A tenderness as soft

As a midsummer rain.

 

Attached to the stem

Is a handwritten note—

A note you read

With your now fervent eyes.

 

“This is my apology

For what I shall do;

This is my apology

For breaking your heart.”

 

The flower now drifts

Out of your hands—

Your cold, cold hands—

And onto the snow.

 

Red on white,

Blood on a canvas—

A canvas that once

Depicted your dreams.

 

Love can be tragic;

Lies are convincing—

Convincing enough

To bury the truth.

 

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