So many times there’s nothing that can be said,
only a hand clenched around the stem of a single red rose.
Gifts from places where those with no individuality rush into
whenever a loved one sheds a tear, or happens to have had a bad day.
For each petal, each chocolate, each mouthful of pasta or meat signifies
a failed attempt to convey what a heart really wants to pass on to another.
I yearn for slow walks, fast loving, quiet conversations over a drink or three,
or loud(ish) music to sing along to when said drinks really kick in.
When frosty morning dew covers the glass, a silent kiss goodbye.
As a hot drink begins to settle, an engine idles as wipers sweep through their arc.
The beginning of the (week)end, or the (week)end of the beginning?
Just a trail of rapidly rising fumes, with a contemplation of what chocolates to buy.
Steve B 10/08