I still caress wilted rose petals,
your fingers had caressed once,
until my eyes sip the wan crimson,
from their decaying remnant.
And those pellucid teardrops
blotches their effete skin,
dappled vermilion blooms,
alike the frigid throe of my heart.
Yet the petals lay gelid, lifeless,
benumbed in your latent clasp,
their hues begoned with the dusk
of your dilapidated life.
You’ll dwell forever in peace,
in the sepulchre of my heart,
bearing my soulful epitaph,
adorned with crimson petals.