That Which You Call Rose

By: Madiha

How long before you realise,

The flowers you chop off to express your love, were lovers as well.

Their scent scattered in the brunette locks of those,

whose hands hold guns on one day

and call them roses on the next.

The emerald colours of the petals

That turquoised into snowflakes

and fell on roses, melting into blood-

the autumn of whose, smelled like spring.

The petals that remain,

manuscripts of pain

That speak of longing-

in the memory of Jhelum.

A memory beyond half-filled jar of water

that wished-

To harbour silkworms,

send kisses to the other flower,

through the touch of honey bees;

A long and distanced love, but love nonetheless.

The smiles, the shy conversations,

The buds that grew inwards,

The 'forget-me-nots' that left the 'baby's breath'-

You keep the bouquet of death,

For a lover whose love isn't red.

My keeper, my jar,

A house that puts my corpse on display,

The hands that empty me of my fragrance,

And shut me within books inlaid with 'instructions to kill'

I ask you,

How do you sleep knowing,

The picture of heaven you have, is nothing but a grave of dead flowers?