Dead Heading a Rose

I count on Denise always 

Being here,

With me, always.

She is my anchor, my playmate, my inspiration.

She is my personal stand-up comedian,

Who laughs so deliciously

That I must take a bite,

And burst into laughter with her.

We feast on silliness

I keep beating down the truth

Of our mortality.

I don't want her to die first.

Yes, I do want her to die first,

So she won't cry,

And bleed a thousand sadnesses,

Drowning in her grief.

I'm being honestly arrogant.

Being true to who I am.

I know how she would feel

Because we are one together.

If she died first,

I would die over, and over, and over.

But for now, I am blessed,

And so is she.

We are a blessing to each other,

With our playful love.

With our loving presence.

She brings me breakfast each morning

While my fingers pull words from my imagination,

and tap the letters on the keyboard.

All the while, the aroma of eggs

Blends with the scent of laptop plastic.

I grind coffee beans in my noisy machine.
I pour the steamy espresso into a cup

Of cream colored sweetened condensed milk,

And ooze my love into her Vietnamese coffee.

I offer it to her with both hands

As I watch her snap off the dead heads

From the climbing pink rose bush

And smile as she tosses them aside

Knowing that they will grow again.

I can't help but to wonder,

If I die first,

Will she still be happy when

She dead heads her roses
Knowing that they will grow again?