Then one morning I woke up. I could not decide whether it was the car horn or the phone ring…
I wish it could have been the smell of roses.
He had bought 11. See, 12 is for love, 11 is for friendship.
There is a tag to everything with pedals and thorns.
Soon later an oval vase came. Apperantly he had meant to bring me more roses and wanted them to be kept in the vase of love.
I put the vase on my book shelf. See, all the books I was to read and I was to re-read were there. And my vase to be filled with the roses, oo those roses to grow from 11 to 12… see, a buquette. I had never realized I could feel like a girl. Was it a woman? Was it time or form that was to define me?
Roses didn’t come.
One night he came late but he had a CD of Miles Davis, A Kind of Blue…
Roses didn’t come ever. And no more CD’s of jazz sound.
And I think one day he left me. I had looked at the calender. It is now more than 15 years ago to this day…
Then there was this flower seller. One day he had roses on his stand. I was taking a walk among the gardens of streets and below the trees that grew branches for me, you see, in case I walked there one day.
Ooo, one rose I guess was 15tl something… That’s what I heard when I asked.
I couldn’t buy any for myself but smiled.
Maybe he didn’t have enough money for roses and maybe that’s why he left.
I keep the vase…