Single Rose For Juniper May
"Call me June."
Her voice is like fragile glass
Hand outstretched, fiery smile
Ivory skin smoother than a waveless sea
Her infinite charm is all I could see.
"June May,"
I laughed, she shifted
Close to me, skin to skin
Her ebony hair sprawled on silk bed
Always had that faint lavender smell.
"Yellow Roses."
Her favourite, she said
I could give her a dozen, bid my farewell
But I knew I couldn't, shouldn't
And she knew it as well.
"It's okay,"
I whispered as she cried
Mascara tainted her porcelain face
Clock struck six, time for me to go
She sighed, her husband would soon be home.
"My daughter's five,"
She replied, though I hadn't asked
Her eyes, rocky hue of experience and emotions
Have seen twenty-nine summers pass by
While I have seen only twenty-five.
"I'm fine,"
Her voice cracked, just like fragile glass
Bloodshot eyes, trembling hands told otherwise
Soaked in guilt, drowning in lies
Slipping away, she tries to stay alive.
"I'm here, June."
Dressed in all black, she in white
I give her a rose, Red, Yellow was not a choice
Strange. I saw, only a single rose, mine alone, lay
Weeping quietly, on the lonely grave of Juniper May.
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