The bouquet leans

in its chipped glass,

petals slack,

edges bruised

like forgotten fruit.

The scent is no longer sweet

but a faint sourness

clinging to the air,

a reminder

that beauty is rented,

never owned.

I watch the stems collapse,

water clouding with ghosts,

and think:

even in decay

they keep speaking,

just softer,

closer to the earth.