Brass

He chiseled a rose out of brass

To profess his love

He should have chiseled her a heart

For she disappeared before morning

Fairy tales

The memories

Every sweet nothing he whispered

Collected on his hands

He couldn’t let her go

Her shadow was neatly tucked

Deep in the crevices of his perfect brass rose

His arms held the scars

From him trying to dance with her ghost

But every memory had a brass thorn

Cutting him open more and more every day

Chiseling him away

Until he became a shadow chasing her ghost

And his brass rose became an unfinished love poem

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