Scoppio

By Insomniac Owl

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There are roses growing up through the aluminum floorboards of the Silvana. Roses creeping through the windows and around doorways, roses shouldering through keyholes.

When Dio closes his eyes at night, roses bloom in fast-forward across his vision.

There are roses circling his bedposts, and tangled in vanship engines, and clustered in silent masses beneath the breakfast table. There are roses twined around his neck when he wakes up in the morning, thorns cutting into his skin.

But whenever he turns to point them out to Lucciola, whenever he tumbles, flailing, out of his bed, he is startled to find nothing there. No roses, no thorns, just Lucciola’s calm, patient gaze – Lucciola, who will never understand.

fin