One last message.

There will be news that calls for you
one day when you’re unavailable, and
turning to leave will lay upon your door
step a calling card accompanied by a single
rose. You’ll find the items on your return, but
forget them once stepped across your hallway
and left on the furthest table. The flower will leak
its ink onto the paper underneath, blurring the lines
of the message written there carefully, slowly going;
whilst the card will withstand a few more days alone,
until it too begins to break down into fibre on the
wooden surface it long ago sprung from.

You’ll find the place stained permanently long after
you’ve remembered that you once left something
there you found outside, but never know the
worthiness such tarnish used to colour or
even care enquiring. Covered in fine
linen it will be hidden and
rehoused by superstore
bought flowers more
in tune with what
you’ve come
to be.