Roses

Horripilation

It is evening; she wears red
Her lotion is all petal
Her nails dyed as if by sunset bonfire
       -- I imagine her fingers translucent against a sinking star--
They tap the edge of the doorway.

She is the specter of the garden

What did the first rose see
That shivered such thorns 
Upon her?

I hear a whisper from the vents
Dragons

I don't know how to take her
Talking to our tiny fire
Drumming her fingers
As she speaks to the flames.
It's a small living room
Grown stone and shadow.

They bite me as I pet them
As I feed them, as I trim them.
I believe it was dragons.

I can hear her envy
In the rustle of silk.

It's a small living room.

This is for our WordCrafters prompt, for the meeting I missed this past Wednesday. I'm still working on the one for "warmth" as well. Hope this finds everyone well. 

-- Chrissa