Death of a Rose The press of a rose pressed between the pages you wrote me so long ago.
Stored there on the off chance I might remember what it was you had done to make me want to recall that incident.

I suppose the angles were all wrong on that day, that hour, that time I have smoked and preserved.

I can make believe it was a lonely highway stop off, cherishing the view I get from up there.

She made me warm all over when she said yes, I would have grasped her gently then and there if there hadn't been any interuptions on the way. I would like to have that crystal ball balanced upon my sword. Even in the gravity of the street signs, a taste that lingers on my lips. I do wish to kiss her, but for now I will live at the movie theatre, crying at the sudden welling of love in the moments I press between the pages.
oldephebe another effulgent reminiscense doar 041201
Deathofarose Danke kind sir. 041201
ergo If I only could 091226
what's it to you?
who go