Frosted Petal Benjamin Moore 2089-70

Once red,
like her mani-pedi,
stripper heels,
and unfaithful lips:
"I'm just going...
shopping honey,"
she tells him.

Roses,
running to hotels,
anonymous reservations,
a call for revenge.


The aroma of lit sented candles,
circuling the chalky tub.

Foamy bubble baths,
with floating multi-colored sepals.

Shared glasses of pink champane for two,
clicking together,
reverberating rings,
as they say cheers.

Dull,
damaged,
damned,
wedding bands,
slipped in the back pockets,
but today forgotten,
today kept on.

Love,
that has been cooled,
chilled,
congealed,
and fallen between the cracks,
replaced for lust.

Thorns,
weeds,
untrimmed edges,

buried;
in icy snow,
under the smokey flames,
of passion,
shared with someone else.

Fading,
drying out,
distant,
and dieing.

A commitment,
a promise long broken,
like a locked door,
but with an extra key awaiting under the doormat.