so I turn it off
wishing I could turn it off,
and glance at the five white roses
in front of the mirror on the mantel,
looking like ten.
That they were purchased out of love
and are not bloody red
won't change a goddammned thing ---
goddamned things, it seems, multiplying
everyday. Last night
the roses numbered six, but she chose
to wear one in her hair
and she was more beautiful
because she believed she was.
It changed the night, a little.
For us, I mean.