Purple roses

My hero’s body crashed into me. His hands touch my body violently when he pushed me out of the way. The Chevy truck didn’t see me. It was our first time. He was in my photography class and I know he joined only to be with me. I acted like I didn’t notice him. Pablo didn’t plan on making an impression, but he did. His blood hammering its way out of him, turning into inky oceans on the street. I cradled him, considering our first time together had been torrential. His body was broken; his heart was fine. His life was like flowing water, slow and peaceful over my lap. It was his first time with a woman-he trembled. The paramedics said because he was dying. Life now in my hands, blood blossoms seeping into my beige shirt, everything about him budding across my chest like red roses, hands softly stretching across like vines touching arms pulling closer to his face open like a white carnation.

“I just wanted to say that I like you.” He said.

“Thank you for saving my life–”I whispered.

“Your pictures are very musical-pictures of Black chinned hummingbirds, rock doves and the American Robin. You…I,” he said, his face turning gray like stone. His eyes staring ahead of him, he never said what he wanted to say. I studied him for awhile as he went still-life in my arms. Life-art, name tattooed on hands and arms and hands purpled by a bouquet of red roses he left pressed on my stomach. The only man who ever loved forever pregnant in this body by his touch.

I thought about all the times he tried to say something to me. When we passed in on the campus I knew he loved me. He was never able to say anything about the feelings between his chest and lips. It seemed as if he was going to do it too when I saw why he didn’t say what was on his mind. As I brushed my black hair away from my eyes my lover was coming towards me and looked upset.

Where do all the good men go?