You say I’m not
allowed to mention
the rose that
was
so red I could
see it
in the
shadows
even when the entire
room was blanketed in
room was blanketed in
romantic darkness.
Don’t mention
the house, you say,
Don’t mention
the house, you say,
that sat in a
line of
houses in that
neighborhood of
quaint, old
homes,
and yet was
different
than the others
simply
because they had
never
guarded a private
moment
of mine, a
moment
whose beauty
made
my heart explode
like summer
fireworks.
Fine. I won’t mention them
(If that’s what
you want)
but they will still
burn and burn and burn
like a flame
in the part of me
in the part of me
where speech has
been exiled.
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