Rose petals,
the color of blood and brown mustard,
vacant of the hues that so endeared you to them.
They smell of alcohol,
with a hint of their natural scent,
not too long past to linger.
They were meant for you,
but in their current condition,
fragile and brittle,
they would make a poor gift.
They have spent months,
sitting on the table,
waiting for me to work up the nerve,
to give them to you.
The longer I wait,
the worse it will be,
the less it will matter to you.
So I pick a day,
today seems just as good as any,
to give you the flowers I forgot to give you before.
Carefully I pick them up,
trying hard not to lose the broken bits,
and place them in the wax paper.
It is a long drive,
longer than I thought it was;
I curse under my breath for making you wait.
Soon I make my way to where you are,
and place the flowers on your front porch,
the wood rotten through,
the shutters hanging off their hinges.
There is a slight chill in the air,
as I walk away,
my task complete.
It has been years since you moved away.
I do not even know if you are alive or dead.
But I kept my promise all the same,
even years later.
It was a promise of flowers on a fine spring day,
not unlike this one.
And though time and space,
separates us.
I hope you appreciate them all the same
