Wasted Petals

She was there in the debris of what could have been. A moth on fire on the back of her

jacket, smoky eyes peering over the fur collar to dazzle with those cherry pop lips against

sun tinted skin and legs in cut-offs like sabres.

I watched her jukebox from one empty glass to the next but she never remembered my

name no matter how loud I said it.

The youth we shared, back then, was a currency all too quickly wasted on bad drugs and

worse people. She couldn’t help herself.

There were roses in the gutter, too many like her, and tulips on the side of young

tombstones. I knew the beauty would take her, so I watched and grew petals while

I waited.