Night has come home to your room, and so have those red eyes- starry and wakeful. Feverish. You are one of mine. a little fool, a Rose of thorns. Hold our word tight, in your flower hands, a word gilded gold and hollow. Watch the wild ones go by in an instant, there and gone. They can smell your youth and beautiful sanity, all blushing petals and green stems. Stay close to me, baby. So I might revive my spirits. I think I can, now. So walk on, Little Rose. Take up my limp and my name. And remember that shining word that blooms from every flower you hold: “Fear.”