Saturday, January 15, 2011

dos rosas

She let the rosebud casually drop onto the concrete below her stiletto heels. That was his last mistake- his final sashay through the contours of her soul- the cessation of his story. The splish-splash of shoes in stale puddles signaled her exit. She could not stay. She could not submit to suicide dressed-up in a coat-and-tie. She silenced her cell, hot tears singing the corners of her brown eyes.


* * *


He bought the last rose before Valentine's Day, in the city square. Grasping a concealed pocketknife, he sliced through its stem, severing the head of his hard-won flower. He graced his lapel with the bud, moisture beading from its seeping wound on the wool of his expensive suit. He failed to notice that he lost the corsage as he strolled from the lobby- it lay deceased on cold asphalt. His fingers pressed the digits of her line, she wasn't there. He left no message.


* * *


Parking-lot pebbles collected in the cracks rasped by the chill February wind. Trash and old wrapping paper, wadded cigarette butts, whispped toward the automatic doors, attempting invasion. As the squall began to subside, two rosebuds wilted beneath the thrum of countless soles, drowning in water-mixed-gasoline. Together they sat, spent.

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