Wilted Rose

This day
smells like
a book page
and you write
just like
Jude Deveraux.

But you have
no idea
that I
really, really
want to
tell you...

the dreams
I had
when I was 5,

how I
wake up
to the scent
of Papa's perfume
at 2:30 am
almost everday,

what sadness
I felt
when I saw
my big brother
cry,

and how
you became
a Wilted Rose
in our lives.

You told me
that Papa
is your poetry,
the very soul
of your thoughts,
and we,
your children,
are the dewdrops
glistening softly
on your petals.

Mama,
I want
to ask you
why you
left us
but your fragrance
brings thorns
down my spine...
and this day
smells like
a book page
and you write
just like
Jude Deveraux-

forgetting
we are
the dewdrops
that a thousand
poetries ago
were caressing
your poetry
and sitting
at your lap,

the reason
you write.