To My Rose 🌹

Every rose comes with its thorns. You showed me yours, and I showed you my hands willing to bleed.

You had spent your life thinking you were insipid. Totally unaware that you were redder than any rose.

Oh, how I can go on about the reddish shade on your soft-pale cheeks.

Or the sad eyes that'd turn red? Those delicate windows to your soul.

Or the smile, where the rose is in the full bloom? A place where my heart always surrendered.

You were the Sun, and I nothing but a sunflower that turned at your each word.

From the intimacies of your folding-flowing-flesh in private, to the joy of your fragrant-flowery-freshness, each moment has left a permanent impression.

The first poem that I wrote, it was about you. All the poems I have not yet written, they'd still be about you. My heart still hums with the dancing rose-leaves and fragrant rosy aroma.

Strange how I decorate this pain.

You were a flower that'd grow each spring. Yet, I loved you so much that I left you unplucked.