Yes, even roses cry,

from their blood red insides,

to the curled tips of the lip-like petals,

held there, mere seconds, to their cradling leaves.

Soft, even between the roughest of hands,

so pliant, they are regularly taken for granted,

tossed about from gardens to grounds,

from a lover’s hands to pristine marble tabletops, crying.

Was it frustration that pulled the tablecloth,

elbows that pushed down from arms with no place to go,

no place where they’ll ever feel comfortable again,

without wrapping around the one who got away?

Vase emptied but for a scattering of dried leaves,

thorns of tears left sharp upon their dying stems,

for so few are ever brave enough to lift the veil and see,

the saddened rose’s final impassioned plea.