The gift of the rose

Her hand was still clutching what remained of the umbrella,
Now all broken metal spines tangled with red vinyl, without sense nor form.
The picture lay on the floor, where it had fallen, still in its frame.
A single crack ran diagonally through the glass, but that was enough.
She doubted she would ever know the whole truth.

And that was just as well.

There were dreams in this room, that once were young.
The rose on the mantel was dry with age yet beautiful, perfectly formed.
Droplets of rain fell upon the white coverlet they’d picked out together.
She reached down to pick up the picture, now yellowed with age.
The crack ran right through his right eye.

How perfect, she thought.

We are all dying inside, she mused, perhaps that is the problem.
She turned the picture in her hands and he seemed to wink.
A trick of the light no doubt, but still she saw her hand was shaking.
There are many kinds of storm, and some winds blow colder than others.
She found herself wondering when their cold wind had started.

Was it before or after the gift of the rose?

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