Ode to Dead Flowers (image by @simonemadeo_) | He sent her a dead rose every evening. She gave him a word in return. When the day ended, she once said to him, that's when she stepped fully into herself, her corporeal being, her maiden name, her pen. So a word, he demanded in return, and she offered. A word. The sacred trickling hours of the evening she kept to herself. She held the spiky stem of the dead rose, and began writing.