I was once called a rose,
Yes, a rose, while we were
Sitting in a garden,
Overgrown with wild grass and weeds.
The flowers,
clinging to thorny branches,
Craved water
To quench their abusive thirst.
Red, yellow, and pink petals
Curling, ready to crumble.

Silence lingered
Longer than expected
After the comparison.
Crickets sang the distant
Chorus under a crescent moon.

“I just can’t
Figure
You
Out,”
Her words
To break
The silence.

“Well,”
I conceded.
“You know
What they say
About
Roses.”

Crickets continued
Composing
A soundtrack
For this
Stumbling
Scene.

“A rose?
By any
Other name?”

The crickets’
Chorus
Crescendoed.

“They still stink.”