The Bright Red of a Rosebud

Calling…calling who… Rose…Rose…Rose… Does the name belong to her, the one I still finger the touch of her lips upon mine Does the lonely picture in my pocket portray her, the one I keep resting in my wallet The one my lips touch everyday in a small instant Rose…her name drives the very strength out of me Leaving me pale stricken, glossy eyed In a moment filled eclipse of irrelevant static The static mimicking the sound of a thousand buzzing flies Slowly encompassing me in deliberate darkness Rose…what is the reason I know of you Rose…what is the reason to why I cannot forget to remember you Rose…so bittersweet like the first taste of a grapefruit Rose…lonely Rose I find myself curled up in a tiny ball contained with fearful dismay My knees hugging my chest in distress, in panic, in disgust, in shame Am I honestly the one to blame; a sharp pain to receive from guilt Is this what it feels like to be cut with a knife or am I the one The one who has forgotten the blood stained tub The bright red of a rosebud I really never knew her name I just know the scream and dead silence of silent agony And being unable to save… Rose…oh Rose…Rose…