Tomorrow, when you come to visit,
You’d come with roses.
The smell would remind me of both death and the afterlife.
I’ll be watching, but you will not see me.
When you come.
Could you bring a black rose with you?
I’m tired of colors.
I died without any as comfort.
See the man standing in the corner?
Wailing uncontrollably and swabbing his empty face.
He’d been the man of my dreams.
The one mama had always called the boogeymen.
He used always bring home red roses.
Teaching me to smell beauty,
After under his force and the moon’s gaze,
I had lost my sight.
So tomorrow, when you come.
Come instead with a black rose.
Only the dark makes sense now.