Born of empathy,

a rose weeps for another’s pain

stained in sorrow’s hue.

The flower you became—

and the shape of its sadness,

a heart of borrowed form.

They do not fall,

these hearts of glass suspended

between frost and flame—

they ache for a hand that will

not come, or one waiting, still.

To reach for love,

one must turn inward to

face themselves fully.

To soothe the soul

in a world where so little

is ever given.

Faded zinnia—

a letter I meant to send,

rests in silence.