I finger the last, soft piece of fragile velvet.
Turning it over and over between my fingers
Rubbing over its silky texture, tracing every crease

Its bitter sweet fragrance still lingers in the air
I absorb every shade of the vibrant colors
A stark contrast against the cold winter’s backdrop

It is all that is left, a lonely reminder of his love
I cradle the treasure loosely in my hand
And slip it gently in to my coat pocket

That was ages ago by now, almost a lifetime behind
In my pocket I brush against a wilted piece of velvet
   . . . the dead petal of a rose