The sickly scent of white roses--
mildew and rotten honey--
waft up to my nose.
There are flies orbiting my ear
and I swat myself on the thigh.
It has been two weeks since the roses
have sagged upon the shelf.
They are swooning and wilted
and sick of flies licking their barren nectaries.
Their scent makes me shudder:
I feel it climb up my arm,
faintly, tracing my veins.
But I can\'t throw them away:
no, not yet. not ever.
No, because honey does not
rot.