Single Rose For Juniper May

"Call me June." Her voice is like fragile glass Hand outstretched, fiery smile Ivory skin smoother than a waveless sea Her infinite charm is all I could see. "June May," I laughed, she shifted Close to me, skin to skin Her ebony hair sprawled on silk bed Always had that faint lavender smell. "Yellow Roses." Her favourite, she said I could give her a dozen, bid my farewell But I knew I couldn't, shouldn't And she knew it as well. "It's okay," I whispered as she cried Mascara tainted her porcelain face Clock struck six, time for me to go She sighed, her husband would soon be home. "My daughter's five," She replied, though I hadn't asked Her eyes, rocky hue of experience and emotions Have seen twenty-nine summers pass by While I have seen only twenty-five. "I'm fine," Her voice cracked, just like fragile glass Bloodshot eyes, trembling hands told otherwise Soaked in guilt, drowning in lies Slipping away, she tries to stay alive. "I'm here, June." Dressed in all black, she in white I give her a rose, Red, Yellow was not a choice Strange. I saw, only a single rose, mine alone, lay Weeping quietly, on the lonely grave of Juniper May.