seventy-one

the roses are dying.

i looked over to find comfort
in their soft perfection
they hang their heads
wilting, shriveled
finished
and i know
that i won't be able to throw them away

i think about you, and relationships
and everything i'm afraid of
because it seems that nothing lasts
life is full of endings

(why do i think about
these terrible things?)

i just want to hold you
to feel comforted by your hands
your eyes
to feel some kind of permanence

i don't want to say goodbye anymore