You gave me roses in December

When our romance was in bloom,

As if to mock winters chill wind

With a pale kiss of spring.

Their petals were white and pure,

Like the childhood we hastily cast aside.

Intoxicated by the fragrance of our blooms,

Like the scent of a meadow in June.

They blossomed through the winter,

Through the sleet, the ice, and snow.

But come Februarys frost

They withered away, as roses often do.

And so too did we wither,

Melted with the snow.

Entering into private belated winters

At the breaking dawn of spring.

But I still kept the roses,

Though they have yellowed and dried.

They sit upon a dusty shelf

With other forgotten childhood baubles.

And in the twilight hours of morning

When the moons icy shadows cascade through the panes,

The roses glow like December buds,

With hints of crisp new life;

In my garden of bitter sweet memories.

I called a church parishioner;

being a prominent member of the community,

it surprised me that she didn't know my name.

"Oh yes, I think I know you.

You're that boy who sings

beside that really pretty girl on Sundays."

Yes, that really pretty girl who sings on Sundays:

With a voice so tragically beautiful,

many wonder if God Himself

sent an angel to grace us with her presence.

An angel with wings blackened and torn,

who marches to the altar in combat boots.

Receives solace for her soul in a miniskirt,

mixing the Blood of Christ with a shot of vodka.

That really pretty girl who did meditative

bong shots the night before

with saints and sinners,

peasants and kings.

Invoking the name of the Almighty

In the back of a car

exactly as God created her;

feeding her apple to Adam and his snake.

That really pretty girl

thrives in the shadows of sin

and shrinks away from all sunlight.

Lost in a perpetual winter,

never knowing the warmth and comfort 27

of untainted joy --

"Is she your girlfriend?"

"No," I replied.

She was.

"But I do sing with that really pretty girl on Sundays."