Too Late for Roses

I walk around the unsilent city;
I am trying to make it my own again.
The yellow walls breathe with your hair.
I like to think I could possibly maybe forget your tragic face.
We and the world are changing;
the only change is toward death, V says.
Perhaps in this decomposition,
stagnation,
as the roses sing love in their putrid aromas we could for once look at each other neutrally.
My intention never was to offer you roses;
I never basked in the moronic uncertainty of a sickly-sweet promise.
I think I knew it right then, the first time your tongue shivered over my nipple,
that forever only exists if you are dead.
(And I am not)