She dances round and round, arms streaming blood.

He left a rose on the pillow instead of saying goodbye.  She never saw him leave; it was, to her, as if he’d become the flower.  Then the officer came to tell her his body would be brought home.

When they carried it, the coffin wilted and fell apart, pieces drifting like petals to the asphalt.  Nobody could explain but she knew: the body was only a remembrance.

She spins, bleeding from his embrace but she doesn’t care, she has him.  She laughs and the petals of his face seem to smile back.