On the far corner of the window sits a solitary rose - medium-sized pale-red short-stemmed. It sits there listening, stands breathing - sweet, bitter air clear, hazy air slow, rapid air.
Red was its color. A hundred times I held it. A pure thing of soft head and innocent, prickly legs.
Smelled it. Held it. Cradled it. Cradled it.
Pure, red rose bathing in near-white light when the sun came up, peeking from the window bars altering all colors into a sea of red.
All red. Heaving. Swimming. Swimming.
Dusk came up and snatched away its innocent face landscaped in smooth cheeks of beautiful scented red.
Shrivelled. Chipped at the sides. Almost shrivelled. Almost chipped at the sides.
Overlooking the night is a soltary rose - head stuck in your wordless bottle, feet dangling in my dried-up ocean, emptying itself in a cursed vase. It still sits there, still stands there - breathing sensing unwavering. - vera (http://veraleigh.blogspot.com)