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Rose, One and Three

One rose

stands in the light.

Its petals curve gently inward,

folding its silence

back into its chest.

It burns quietly,

like a corridor lamp someone forgot to extinguish at night,

keeping a small stubborn red

for the world.

Three roses

sit side by side.

Their shadows overlap slowly on the table,

then drift apart as the light moves.

The fragrance has no direction,

rising only between them,

like three forgotten names

finding their seats again.

A fourth shadow

appears without sound��

neither petal nor light.

It settles among them

as though it has been waiting.

Between the one and the three,

nothing happens.

Yet the air grows thinner,

so thin

that every thorn begins to remember

whom it once pierced,

and whose blood once gently fed it.

The petals tremble.

The shadows draw closer.

Whether they are guarding

their wounds,

or one another.