And there was barely a distance from me to you. Sun rose and my heart beat, waiting.

Your overcoat behind you, thumping of your heavy boots. Hands rustled in your pockets. I felt the depth of your eyes in mine, a reflecting pool, I saw my self in them.

Roses were red in the fall, blood red and cold, hiding at the edge of a gravel path. Hid my head, hung it low, a tear falling onto one outreached petal. My mind wouldn't tell me. What was it, so wrong?

See your face, see it smiling dappled in the leafy shadows. Rocks flew up beneath your feet, flew away with a colder breeze, that left me shivering into your arms.

And all this time it was silent.

I could hear your heart let out a cry, anger tears through miles, nothing will stop it. But all the time I was silent. Next day I couldn't see myself in you, cloudy eyed and distant. And I heard you louder still. But all this time I was silent.

A doctor with beady eyes. Shuffling over, a sad sad smile.

A manilla folder layed on the table. And suddenly, this world was foreign. But the numbers were so very clear.

"Two months to live."

Heavy heart, heavy breath. The blood red of roses thirsty they die, the dark of night that screamed inside. Too late to change time.

The buttons of your overcoat, like the dreadful scent of clean hospital sheets, folded tightly, bound around the very last note of your song that never would fade away.

And every day walking that cold fall lane, I'd pick a wilted petal of a red red rose. One for the silence, the empty core of my heart. One for the screaming from which I'd be forever haunted. And three, for the months of our lives, that could never be forgotten.