For a week now, the roses
bloom white, in a glass vase,
their green leaves stuffed
like crackers into a box.
As they open, the
scent of honey and
a dampness
on their folds.
The white petals peel away
and fall unnoticed
to the floor, where
they gather with dust and cat hair.
Now fading,
now wilting,
they seem more lovely
than when first bought,
more lovely and
more loved, as I and
the stars around me
bloom, white, and falling.
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