Dead Roses

When I kneeled at the foot of your altar,

You dismissed my worship

And instead gave me dead roses.

When I crawled in your lap

And offered my sun-kissed petals

You were repulsed by the thorns.

The thorns grazed your fingers

And when the mouth of a crimson river

Opened your disgust became prominent on your face.

My thorns were not a burden you

Were equipped to carry.

For when I reached for the stars,

You brought out shears.

You said "You are like snow",

Cold to the touch yet pure at heart.

I longed to meet your fingertips

In the space between desperation and lust,

And what I received was empty promises

On a bed full of yearning and want.

Your scent lingered on my pillow

Like your ghost on my soul

And the ceiling became a blank canvas

Painted with your memory

That soothes the stormy seas

That raged within my ribcage.

The eyes that once memorized

Every freckle on my being,

The hands you used to caress

Every curve of my bodice

Now wandered on my back

Searching for a sign of ignition.

Alas, you found all of the embers

Drenched with whiskey.

My tears could no longer facilitate my growth,

Water could no longer suffice.

So I settled for Chianti,

A curved glass and an unsteady hand

With the Ancient drink 

Dripping from my blush lips.

The smoke had cleared

And Tequila could no longer extinguish

Your memory but rather reawaken it,

Reliving every hollow footstep out of my door,

Into the world of opportunity and women.

And then I knew,

Not even the flames of Hell

Could compare to the fire

I had burning for you.

All I ever wanted was your love,

But instead you left me with dead roses.