| Like an extension of your hairless arm, you held it out to me. A small delicate rose bud, that seemed too insignificant. A reflection of your shrunken heart. Months have past, the petals are shut tight, too brittle to move. And I know that no matter how much sugar-water I have to offer, the bud will never open up and offer its beautiful stamen. |
—Edith Sargon
