From Blooms to Perfumes

I hate it when flowers die,

But I love them when they bloom:

from precious bud,

hopefully brand new,

to fully opened grace,

in generously tactile beauty.

Diagonally cut stems

hold roses with strength,

until the story must end,

and the bloom must droop to death.

I gather the once majestic flowers,

to capture their still soft petals

before they are cried in tears.

Petals that have marked funerals,

condolences, birthdays,

upliftment in illness,

or simply a gift to myself

to ease the loneliness.

I scatter the held tears purposefully,

offering them the space to dry;

a seemingly morbid preservation,

which has left me with these dried tears.

Perhaps I should throw some away.

Forget their story.

“Let go” of the tragedy they represent.

But how can I?

When their perfume is so heavenly?