The Rose

I’m yearning for these clock hands to be analog,
so I could hear the minutes tick past.
Instead, I remember with each silent flicker
that my phone still lies silently, too.

Now it’s 10 past 10 and you’re an hour late
(a nice touch for our second date).
I resign myself to another lonely night:
Roll the engine over, and I’m gone.

While I’m deciding if I should laugh at my naïveté,
or mourn your seeming dispassion,
I realize there’s still a rose perched in my passenger seat;
I picked it earlier today with compassion.

To crush it? burn it? or hold it dear?
A year has changed my perspective.
The fragile bloom now stands guard by my bed,
a warning that your words are evanescent.