She loves me, she loves she not.
Her chiding words draped me in sorrow.
Her smiling chastisement “there's always tomorrow.”
My gift of Flowers strewn, and left to decay, like my hope for her forbidden love.
Together on her silken bale, I found them locked a grotesque entanglement of betrayal.
An end to their love, as they put an end to mine, through shattered vase and flowers, for my courtships wasted hours.
The crimson spray of their demise illuminating cream linen, with splaying lines,
A tear for every Petal fallen, I am the Publisher of my passionate crime.