Where Roses Never Bloom
Lwazi…
Piggs Peak blushes red each February,
dressed in ribbons and borrowed promises,
but I no longer watch the streets glow.
Red reminds me
how easily love can bleed
without a sound.
I was wearing white
when the news found me —
white,
the color of innocence
I did not deserve to wear.
You once said
my laughter softened hard days.
Now it startles me in quiet rooms.
It echoes like something stolen,
like joy that does not belong
to the hands that hold it.
I said love does not need money.
I spoke it boldly,
like someone who had never met hunger.
I did not know fear
could bend the strongest vows —
fear of empty cupboards,
fear of struggling forever,
fear of becoming my mother
counting coins beneath candlelight.
Sipho offered comfort,
shining and certain.
A safe harbor.
A polished cage.
I stepped inside.
And lost you.
They call you weak.
But loving with empty pockets
takes courage.
Choosing diamonds over devotion —
that was weakness.
Your hands were rough with work.
Mine are smooth with regret
that refuses to wash away.
I wear gold now,
but I have never felt poorer.
If sorrow could breathe life into rivers,
if apologies could stitch broken bridges,
I would walk back to you barefoot —
without pride,
without fear,
without the foolish hunger
that mistook wealth for worth.
But the water kept your name.
It swallowed it whole.
And Piggs Peak moved on.
Each Valentine’s Day
they celebrate love with roses.
I close my curtains.
Because now I understand —
love did not need money.
It needed courage.
And when it mattered most,
I had none.
