We were there the night the roses exploded. Blood red petals cover city parked cars, showered with confetti failures. Tell me yours and I’ll show you mine. See the concrete lined with trees, see these lists, inked leaves with juices from fallen fruit. Half-moon stains are thoughts unsaid. Do you remember when we sat on fences as the sun went down, pinks and purples against the sky? I pressed the lilac but bricks became the softest petals, the night bouquets were made from the ruins of us.

K.M. Crane is a writer from Northern California. When not writing, she reads healthcare policy and federal regulations. Some of her work has appeared in Emotional Alchemy, Star*82 Review, and IO Lit.

Links:

• Twitter: @kmcranewrites
• Instagram: @k.m.crane