The smell of death is the smell of roses

Sometimes, dried roses are as dead.

I found some drying roses. Maybe today, maybe a while back. I picked them up and put them in a vase made partially of black lava rock and partially of ivory or stone of flesh.

Some of them still smell. Lovely as ever.

Some of them still smell. Of decay and death of fall.

I gave them water from my eyes but I don't know if salt will kill them (if they're not that dead yet that not even the glove of life can bring them back) or the water will nurture.

I wish I could sculpt roses. I'd make them as real as they come or even more so. I'd give them away, all and all and all of them. Until everyone has one and I wouldn't need any myself. But I can't. I've lost the tools.

I think I gave them away or hid them. I don't know where or to whom.

I wish...

My roses would be the stars to wish upon.

Sometimes even the salt of the tears can bring some back.

But sometimes... Sometimes dried roses are as dead.

I'll wait and wish upon a star that smells of sweet-sweet roses.