She noticed the red roses on the table and read the note,

“I finally realized how much I love you; it’s not too late, I hope.”

She smirked and sat on the chair

Remembering how she chased him with despair.

On bottles of whiskey and wine,

On summer evenings they’d dine,

She put all her dreams in line.

He finally admitted, reciprocated,

Her infinite devotion that was unrequited.

“What can I do, you know, I love you,” she said.

He remembered how her cheeks were red,

Admitting love for the first time,

In poetry and in rhyme,

It was his first innocent crime.

They have been cat and mouse all these years,

She has been running with all her tears.

“No, not today, my dear.”

He refused with a heavy heart,

Kicking himself to sleep very hard,

He lost his winning card.

Refusing to hear that lovely bard.

She smelled the flowers and closed her eyes,

He muttered, “Oh, you and your pretty lies.”

Recalling the hurtful things he said to drive her away,

How she waited forever and a day.

She went to pick up the phone,

She said she was better off alone.

They both loved music and rock and roll,

In her heart, he was the starring role.

“You know, I love you,” he said with a smile,

When it was too late; when she walked down the aisle.

“It is too late,” she muttered, so it was.

How unforgiving fate can be if you save the best for last.

–Sarah Motenegro

Sarah is an NYC professional by day, a writer by night. She writes horror and tragic stories, and sometimes, about past lives. Recently, she tried dabbling into poetry. You can email her at  and you can check out her short stories at

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