Blood flower

A man waits patiently on a love table, with a scent that charms. A table with cutlery that portrays art. With sweet melody music in the air. As the music slowly but surely dies down. The clock clicks continuously. As he realise that the night grows old. The chair on the other side cold and empty as if it expected someone. As the hands of time point beyond the dine time. The stars don't align, the moon light leads him home. On a table, a rose for my mistress.