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roger that transmission

| Posted by on Feb 9, 2010 | Comments (0)

In the corner of my room there's a lone red rose in a used brown bottle. It's a Pacifico to be precise- the bottle, not the rose- as to the rose, I wouldn't know. If I were any good at math I would have gone to med school. Still, no need to run diagnostics to see that the short lives of Pacifico bottles don't typically end well, and this one should be happy for not having been thrown away. Thrown away like the others, all its otherwise identical brothers, sextuplets but for the fact that I chose it by chance to hold something beautiful. What a lucky fellow he is, and he will never know it. Meanwhile the water is intoxicated because the trace fluids have permeated and the flower drinks thirstily and blushes. At least I think so, in the end it's hard to tell when things start off so red in the first place. The rain outside is cold and wants in badly, knocking on the door after last call, knocking with purpose. And there still sits my inebriated water, in this special brown bottle, sober rain green with envy, the rose red with who knows and me here more or less a dark, deep blue as far as I can reckon. I can't get off, and I can't it off my mind either- I wish I knew if that rose is blushing, or at least red with love, or perhaps it's more nefarious like revenge or indifference. How does one ever know? I smell her and curse myself for only being able to count high enough to be able to pluck her petals bare in order to tell whether she loves me not, and destroy her entirely in the process. I look at the rain, and now I am the one turning green. The bottle toasts us both. I go back to my slumber. Roger that.

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