The stench of it never leaves us, this poporie of old love like old roses, grows stronger as it dies.
Sweet that is really sour though we cling to it as if it still lives, with the desperate hope it might -- like Christ -- resurrect, yet never does, old roses, rotting even as we clutch them, drawing blood from our fingers, red blood as if drained red from the wilting petal we hold to, our nose to breath, sweet, yet not sweet, thick with the odor of foiled romance and the guilt of having neglected something that might have thrived, if we had clutched a little less and loved much more.
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