Despite the hosing, stems still cling to their cobwebs. Strands draped between limbs, threads quivering in a threat to untangle. Roses grow thirsty again in a moment, stripped out of their petals heat caught up on their thorns. A lessening, in want of more.
We walked among roses and he spoke of Paris, of Florence and Venice, of worlds we would travel. We walked among roses until thorns turned to claws and flowers were beautiful no more.