your rose by Chin Zhi Qing (24S64) once, you gave me a rose about as deep of a crimson as my face and the hearts in my eyes; it was my first. i reached out to accept — the same crimson trickled out from the tip of my finger; you forgot to dethorn it. i broke into laughter only you could weave out of me, you broke into profuse apologies and sweet nothings only privy to me. crimson tickled your ears; cats and bunnies could never compare. that day could have been our anniversary. but past the bell chimes draped in silk and smiles, the black under both our eyes prolonged by weeps of an angel, comes a day when tea and coffee, illuminated by streaks of red and orange burning out the night, become just tea. then a day when tea, the tea getting louder and louder and silence having lost its colour, becomes just an empty porch of withered wood and musty mould. someone who lived on only in pictures and pitiful attempts to reassure another stuck in time, that’s something tears would never stop falling for. the gaps left behind, i feared, would always stare right back. just like the little eyes that would ask “where’s daddy?” once, you gave me a rose. about as deep of a crimson as my face and the hearts in my eyes; it was my first. i reached out to accept — the same crimson turned maroon, like wine on white; it smeared over your eyes and your face and your hands and your rose and your- i broke two hearts that day. maybe i’m just selfish like tha t.