You hated roses, dispassionately, you told me later,
Raising my left brow, in disbelief, surreptitiously, I did ponder.
But next to a grinning yellow minion, dressed in blue, without a nose
You did, amidst your fountain pens, keep that silly crimson rose.
It wilted with time, morphing into a shade of muddy brown,
And crisp to the touch, a few petals crumbled down.
Was there an ashtray, a white and red miniature drum, I remember not?
For the once pleasant memories have now trickled to a blurred dot.
My phone would rest upon the bedside table each Sunday night,
Set to three annoying alarms, the last one at thirty and five.
Dozing, trying to be awake, my eyes would lazily droop,
While you, mirthfully, binged over Will and Grace at a constant loop.
And resting my messed up hair upon your marshmallow arm,
I would soon drift into a slumber, dreaming of our home without a harm.
Waking up at three, I’d hunt, under the sheets, for the remote,
And snuggling next to you, turning the TV off, I’d grab you amorously close!
Without a notice, one balmy afternoon, you said it was all over,
Tears rushing down pale cheeks, my heart was torn asunder.
Despair and disbelief, unfathomable, I sank in a drowning tide of emotions
But to heal a broken heart, despairingly, there exists no manna or potions.
Listening to broken conversations inside my head, I counted lizards on the wall,
And living through the insipid weeks, I witnessed a coppery summer change to fall.
An azure winter sky, frost upon leaves, shrouded me in their comforting dampness,
Refuting but acquiescing, I surrendered and submitted to the stifling stillness.
Spring, polychrome, arrives and kisses the hibernating gladiolus bulbs to life,
But the shattered million pieces, within my bosom, finds no reason to strive.
Dainty marigolds, golden orange, hysterically beckon to a yellow bee,
Shivering, they whisper, ‘life must go on’; hitherto, a truth I had refused to see.
Emerging, languidly, I step towards a life I had deliberately paused,
Upon streets, to bookstores, I walk, gazing at life, with an interest renewed.
A little girl with a bunch, approaches and ‘a rose to buy’, to me she proposes,
Smiling, I buy a stalk and placing it on my sling bag reminisce ‘You hated roses’.