Green petal grazes thorny pin-pricks of regret. Stepping out and down cobblestone, marbleized now; some strange time-warp alchemy, setting foot, my clog becomes a sneaker. Rain pools in puddles, washes away ashes and dirt and dust. A rose grows from a crack, out through the pavement in the gutter where muddled leaves get discovered, where no one’d dare to look except to avert their gaze or lazily cast a finished cigarette. Rosie on Vine. Pink and yellow daisies would at best get a maybe, but a red and white rose and a black and white photo of the street we met when it was first inaugurated would demonstrate my love for you. Poor affectionate displays. I have lost my sense of taste. I am dumbstruck, realization comes at me in waves and crests on the shores of my mind. A Valentine, meandering and not quite clear because I cannot find the words. I used to hate to be loved, now I’m loving all the time. I am now a sponge just soaking up your life. Cast any stone –
