the whole house smelled musty
an acquired taste for a twelve-year-old boy.
it lingered even in the flower bed
where thin limbs wore green gloves
and she cut you with her sarcastic wit
for they were supposed to be her roses
though all i saw was something
half dried, half barely living
as if trying to find another breath.
they belonged in between the pages
in a book with velum paper
not the memory of a wide-eyed child.
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