This Sadness (Questa Tristezza)

I touch these lifeless roses
as they lay in their grave on the windowsill.
I remember strutting the bridges of Venice
with you at my side
and these roses,
with a flash of crimson pride.
The thorns did not stab me then
as they do now.
They only pricked me playfully--
and how I laughed with delight
as we pressed the roses between us
like two pages of an unread book.

But, I return
to this death bouquet,
brittle, crumbling,
begging to be buried and forgotten.

It's funny, isn't it
how love dies
like all other living things
and we can't apologize.