I could plunk it down for you, a yellow rose, petals opening like labia. Roses are brazen hussies, though, and like a high fashion photographer shooting a fourteen year old girl, we inject a sexuality more like our own with every glance. Roses don’t care. “Pollinate me.” But red ones mean this, and orange ones these three others things, and don’t forget yellow, a most complicated color. Roses, with all those gazes bouncing around, those miscommunications, they’re bad for friends.
No, when love is like a stone, a hard thing you can touch, what is a friendship? Forget flowers. A bridge? The wooden frame of a house? A shadow, maybe. Something that doesn’t stay behind when you leave. Maybe friendship is a Virginia creeper winding round a blasted oak stump: some verdance after the lightning strike. Leaves that conceal and heal.