Pink roses

 It sits on my wall. As if staring right through my soul. 

The flower bouquet sits lonely on my center table. The lights are dim, almost out shadowing every petal of it. The pink roses. I remember you telling me about the pink roses, about how much they meant to you, about how you'll forever remember them because they remind you of someone who still bothers to remember you. How you want to keep something sacred just because it feels like home to you. I know how much you love flowers. I even drew them on the painting I painted of you. 

Sliding one hand in my pocket, leaning on the cushions of the slush couch, I stare at your painting and the pink roses I drew beneath it. My signature on one side and few more roses on its edges. I knew how beautiful you looked when I painted you like this. 

How could the pink roses betray me like this I don't know. This whole house seems like to be filled with your laughter. Its not only your scent in the cushions, in my wardrobe, in my hall curtains that I miss, its your whole presence of a flower, of a pink rose that i miss blooming in these interiors. 

I don't know if you've realized yet that running with someone else you loved while being with me was a good enough decision for you. But I know, I would have done better. I just know. 

Because I know how you smell, how you walk, how you talk when you feel down, ashamed, ugly, upset, underconfident, when you feel like drawing in all the things you've built overtime. I just know. I just know you so well that I am sure as hell that no one can know you better. Better than me. Better than my love which craves every single morning for you touch, for your smell, for your presence, for your love.

This hunger still has miles to go. I am not at the shore yet. I am wandering and walking and fumbling and crawling but still walking to find the end of all this. I will know. I have to know. Where this grief will end.