A Picture on the Wall.

From a picture on the wall,
I stare out at you,
I see you sit in the same chair,
a streak of white in your hair,
with the same rose in your hand.
As you caress the petals with your tips,
a gentle gasp escapes through my lips,
for I am taken to the times when we were,
when it was okay to love, alright to err.
The thorns on the stalk, so beguile
how they always stole my smiles,
so triumphant, so content,
these thorns that stayed, only I went.
You trace the stem all the way down,
your content face, not even a frown,
and I want to jump out of this frame,
how I wish I could call out your name.
I wish I could run back to you,
tell you how fast this time had flew.
But that rose just stood where I stood,
those thorns became your friends,
suddenly I was surrounded by many dead ends,
I was just a soul, so devoid of a body,
the rose had petals, thorns so spiney,
like the crimson in the petals,
the coffee brewing in the kettle,
my blood boiling in my frozen heart,
how you managed to break me apart,
even so I have no life,
you still managed to win this strife.
Like a blunt knife trying to kill,
I was in a battle with my will,
even marble-tiled floors remember my steps,
the weight of my feet they still felt.
Unlike you, who nipped me in the bud,
like the same ugly rose,grotesque, so red.