It is the only one who cherishes me. I am the only one who adores it. One delicate rose, with prickly thorns and rosy cheeks unlike mine. One among the others waiting to be plucked. One gallant soul that I was lucky enough to pick. From my patio, I can see it, so I often stare and enjoy the little things.
Its emotion is secret. It sends delightful roots beneath the soil and dirt. It looks up and looks down and captures me between its sharp thorns but loving scent and it never quits its affection. This is how love continues.
Let one remember the past, I’d die like one tulip in the field with roses, with its stem twisted with the others. Love, love, love until you can’t love anymore. It whispers.
When I am too broken and quiet to keep continuing, when I am a distressed teenager with mixed emotions, then it is I look at the rose. When there is nothing left to admire in my life. One who blossomed despite the dry weather. One who loves and does not forget to love. One whose only reason is to love endlessly.