Dead roses still have thorns;

their scent still whispers your name.

I’ve carried you in my pocket,

reaching in to grasp you,

as if you had never left.

Your memory is etched into my skin,

burrowed deep,

lingering

for as long as I can remember.

I try to resurrect you,

only to watch you crumble in my hands,

reopening old wounds—

My mouth is full of copper,

my nose filled with the stench

of dead roses.