roses.txt (guest post)

2 a.m. , thinking about you
standing at the window
staring at some… nothing, just looking down
(my sight could now easily get to China … or Australia, or something like that)

and I’m wondering
if the roses from my neighbours’ garden last ‘till you come home
(and if they do, will you still love them when I’ll bring them to you? or you’ve changed in the meantime, too?)
‘cause that’s the flower that you like, the rose

it makes me think that you’re so mainstream,
most of the time;
(and there’s nothing wrong about being mainstream…)

5 a.m. , after kind-of-an-argument with you over the phone
but the roses wither
so they won’t last
as long as we want them to last

and I can clearly see a petal detaching,
floating, surfing in the air,
touching the ground with a grave, but practically silent sound
when you say again
that I don’t know what I want
and that I’m acting like a girl…

(and what saddens me is that you actually may be right.)

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