What sour sweetness fills the air?
What mixed flavors spur these thoughts?
What song moves us closer?
What forces wedge in between?
What plots?
What counsel?
What stench still lingers.

But two crimson roses have yet to die
with their delicate dry petals
braving tempest rains and dessert dust
against time,
against waves of witches,
no longer red,
but colored like tainted wine.

The two roses still holding on to February
And the little heart murmurs they shared.
The drip of sweat between them.
Frozen in that moment
Just like we are,
now,
in this one.

©2014

For Sandra Milena