i am a dying rose.
my thorns do not pierce me,
nor you; i hope not.
i used to blossom for you, dear.
i'd gather all my blood at the petals,
and glow a deep crimson.
did you love me then?
i was beautiful, wasn't i?
you used to smile at me, then.
you'd cradle me in your hands,
"how beautiful you are," you'd hum.
i was beautiful, wasn't i?
but look at me now.
no; you won't even glance at me.
is it because i am no longer the shade of red
you want me to be?
should i bleed for you?
i should, shouldn't i?
i did, my dear.
to my very last breath, i did.
but your beautiful eyes have sucked all the life out of me.
see now, dear?
i am still here.
but you are gone.
should i run after you?
i should, shouldn't i?
i did, my dear.
and lost, i was, searching endlessly
for a sight of your billowing hair
or a scent of your perfume.
nothing, my dear.
and now, i wilt here.
i failed, my dear.
should i try again?
it seems i've tried for too long.
and now i wilt.
and see, you are still gone.
i am still here.
but suddenly, the frigid wind doesn't seem all that detrimental;
what petals am i trying to save?
my cardboard leaves don't need water anymore.
i don't feel much anymore.
so if you come by, my dear.
i am afraid i won't recognize you,
after being numbed thoroughly in insanity.
i won't recognize your singing voice
nor your tender touch.
i won't be able to decipher your loving words
nor your calming eyes.
forgive me, dear.
i'm forgetting, dear.
it's been too long, dear.
i've become numb, dear.
you can't save me, dear.
i've forgotten you, dear.
(c)2004 mai kozai
*inspired by an idea for a poem, by vu. i know i left some of the elements out, but i tried. thanks for the idea, anyhow.
silence is also music. {7:07 AM}
the poet
mai sharona.
december 5, 1984.
davis, california.
a sucker for flowers.
