The scent of roses

Pin me to the sun, I begged you once. And you took me to your sky. You showed me eternity burning, blown autumn with the cinders of perdition.

In the hours when you sleep, I lie awake. The loss of you still wrapped around me in blankets. I am scattered, the edges of my mind blurred and rubbed out. The parade of me called off. Switched off. Temper the sound of my breath. My heart beat. I dream of ghosts, fevered and recycled demons, clawing Marley at my door. Flicking channels, I seek out my own fear in cinematic nightmares. Another autopsy of death drawn scarlet on snow. Another scream of innocence, muted down to 4am. I am cold. Disenchanted by the mechanics of terror. I hold a spyglass to catch the light of dead stars, but that smoke in soft curls still burns. When you sleep. Sometimes, I miss your silence more than your words.

And all that is left of me is the scent of roses, on your skin.



13 thoughts on “The scent of roses

  1. “Sometimes I miss your silence more than your words” – I absolutely love that line. Interesting piece as always – excellent stuff.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. So much poetry here for such a short piece. It feels very inspired. I admire the way you convey emotion with flashes of imagery that seem very personal yet are so easy for the reader to relate to.

    Liked by 1 person

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