Of Pot-Pourri and Valentines

Her crooked fingers

Pause for a second

Or two.

Maybe a fraction longer...

She breathes deeply, runs a hand

Haphazardly through her long

Dark curls, shuts her eyes for

A brief moment and sighs

Before continuing.

She lets her work

Engulf her once more.

She never truly stops,

Her mind is always

Alive.

She glances at the clock,

Squinting in the dark,

And retires, thinking of bed

And the one she loves.

He's miles away, of course.

But she glances up at the roses he left.

Sat on the dusty table in the hall

With a note attached.

Once gorgeous and full of life,

They now wither and decay as she does,

But she cares not for their beauty,

Or lack, thereof.

She cares for nothing

More than the note attached,

Dated February fourteenth

Of the previous year.

To my love, my darling

You made me the happiest man in the world.

And I shall love you

Until the end of my days.

Sleep soundlessly, dearest.

I love you.