Roses

There was silence filling every corner of a frilly pink clad room, except for the quiet musical contemplations floating from a small radio perched atop shelf adorned with old stuffed objects and pictures with the same carbon copied smile plastered on every masterfully sculpted body. The lyrical compositions were that of the usual teeny bopper assortment, the kind of music you would play if your boyfriend broke up with you. A still female figure hovered over a nightstand, eagerness and disappointment radiating with every breathe. A pink robe was thrown over a pair of form fitting jeans and crop top with the word “flirt” in a feminine cursive. The phone rings. A shoe box under the bed sits still as dust collects on every inch, almost momentarily. Two withered roses hang from the cord of the blinds attached to a window in a far off corner. “But” she sobs; mascara running down her perfectly chiseled features, blue eyes about to overflow “I waited for him to call all night”