Emptiness

A rose.
A beautiful rose,
twisting and turning,
the sun glinting off its perfect petals.
Twirled by delicate, pale fingers.
Twirling,
twirling,
the rose keeps turning.

The fingers,
for so long, seem to evade its thorns.

But, eventually,
thorn and finger meet.

Red blooms
upon the pale skin,
while the rose loses its color,
leaving and inky black.

The red
encompasses the pale fingers,
the black is left in the petals of the once beautiful rose.
The silvery moonlight
falls upon the empty petals.
Upon the stem.
Where the hand once was.