She keeps a bouquet of wilted flowers
on a weary wooden chest in her room.
Roses, baby’s breath, and wisteria
have long since ceased to live,
all shriveled up husks,
trapped in a shadow of their former beauty.
The roses’ petals have all but fallen off,
and soon they’ll crumble to the touch.
That light wash chest trembles
under their weight, whimpering to be
rid of their weight.
The girl, draped in a fading white lace dress
far too fine for her,
sits firmly on her rocking chair.
Her only movement is the occasional squeak
when she plays with the hem of the dress
as she stares at the cadaver of her youth.
Her pinned up hair falls
around her hallowed out face,
strands of washed out brown
tangling with long wet lashes.
She unravels her dress’s sleeves
as her as her mind rests solely
on the fate of a lover who lost themselves
and destroyed her while they clasped hands.
She longs to throws the flowers out
of the rain-stained window near her,
but how can she?
She still recalls their beauty.
Copyright © 2019 by Nita Pan
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Listening to: “Wild World” by Scott Ruth