《玫瑰，一只与三只》

一只玫瑰

立在光里。

花瓣微微向内，

像把一句未曾说出口的惦念

折进胸口。

它安静得

仿佛深夜里有人忘了吹灭的长廊灯，

独自替世界守着一小点不该熄灭的红。

三只玫瑰

并排而坐。

影子在桌面缓缓重叠，

又在光线游移时彼此松开。

香气没有方向，

只在它们之间升起，

像三个被时间遗忘的名字

忽然重新找到座位。

第四道影子

悄无声息地出现——

它既不是花瓣，

也不是光，

而是某个早已消失却仍被记住的人，

或者一段从未说出口的原谅。

一只与三只之间，

什么也没有发生。

空气却忽然变薄，

薄到

每一道刺都开始记起

自己曾刺过谁，

又被谁的血温柔地养活。

花瓣轻轻一颤，

伤口便在无声中彼此靠近，

像三个人终于把

最深的脆弱

交换成

最隐秘的守候。

它们不再是玫瑰。

它们是人类之间那些

不肯消失、

也不肯被说出的东西——

深夜的灯、

逝者的名字、

以及

互相替对方

藏好的刺。

Rose, One and Three

One rose

stands in the light.

Its petals curve gently inward,

folding its silence

back into its chest.

It burns quietly,

like a corridor lamp someone forgot to extinguish at night,

keeping a small stubborn red

for the world.

Three roses

sit side by side.

Their shadows overlap slowly on the table,

then drift apart as the light moves.

The fragrance has no direction,

rising only between them,

like three forgotten names

finding their seats again.

A fourth shadow

appears without sound—

neither petal nor light.

It settles among them

as though it has been waiting.

Between the one and the three,

nothing happens.

Yet the air grows thinner,

so thin

that every thorn begins to remember

whom it once pierced,

and whose blood once gently fed it.

The petals tremble.

The shadows draw closer.

Whether they are guarding

their wounds,

or one another.