For a week, the rose lived. Nightly, I brushed my nose against petals, preferring you. This is what I know: when a rose begins to die it gives up its color. At the edges, hardness and darkness take shape. Inside, blushing red petals cling to each other. This is a final intimacy, a softness enduring.

*

I know because I pulled at the petals till I got to the core, and I held the petals against my outstretched palm, fascinated by the natural bends, the blends of red—I don’t want our love to take on these darker shades. I want us as the last two petals on the stem. I remember Vermont and Italy and the miles in between; my belly without your hand; your chest without my head. We don’t wait under different time zones now, but I’m still asking you to come home.

*

Last February you were late enough to our date that I pictured your stopping at a busy street corner to get the flowers I told you not to get. I didn’t think I needed flowers to tell me that you loved me. I’ve learned not to walk away, so I ordered without you. When you rushed through the door without flowers, I wanted not to want.

*

I can’t stand roses dying in the name of romance. That day you showed up at my door with the red rose, I took it without saying thank you. I didn’t think I was the type to need flowers. I’m taking notes on how the rose is dying, saving its red. I’m taking notes for when you
come home.

– Claudia Rojas