There’s a yellow rose on my balcony, right in front of the door. Its petals have dried and hardened around the bulb, brown and yellow from head to stem. From the first day I saw it in September to the brisk cold day of today. I would pick up someone else’s love if the door wasn’t bolted and plastered shut. There has been rain and snow, but I can tell it is a rose, one rose placed or tossed to a previous resident’s feet? I am bloated from feeding off love from the past.