IN THE ABSENCE OF ROSES,
we’ve exchanged passages
from Murakami,
recited dialogue we’ve memorized
from funny pictures
and dramas on the dais
through the curtains.
We shared ink stains and lead residues,
the better to see the players
who lived in our heads.
You gave me the colors
you hand-picked for my canvas
from the tint of your lips
and shades of your skin.
I traveled your peculiar world
through the pages
of your manuscript.
And in place of fancy stones,
I gave you a play on words
once a day
to tickle your funny bone.
Here, while we want for comforts
and wait for plenty.
We exchange the tenderest
of touches
as if to say…
tomorrow—the world awaits
more of us.
In the Absence of Roses
31 August 2026
—
I haven’t written a love poem in so long. I’m happy I got to pen something again before the year closes in a few months.
Trivia: Pencils never had lead in them. But the idea that pencil is made of lead stuck around. And it’s still interesting to use in creative works.
My painting of pink roses from last month for attention.
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