Young Love

November 12, 2017
You gave me a rose of paper,
Not tickled red by the rising sun,
But still it was a rose,
The first time anyone had given me one,
You said it never would die,
And I guess that had small truth,
But the rose was never alive,
Forever stuck in whimsy and youth,
The rose made me want to cry,
Did I matter to you that much?
It had love folded into its creases,
Not by God but by your touch,
I still have my paper rose,
But now it is quite stale,
For the only thing softer than petals,
Are the tears making my paper rose frail.





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