I brought you a rose.

Hoping you’d feel what I meant by that gesture.

My hands were bloodied by its bush,

And frigid from the new December.

My crimson grip had dyed the stem.

I laid it down and tried again.

To pick a rose that I knew could embody your perfection.

I picked,

And picked,

And picked.

Yet I stained their burgundy with red.

I watched their beauty as I bled —

As their rigid stems,

Had turned my hands to wine from ruby red.

So I brought you a bouquet. 

Stained, but I hoped you'd feel what I meant by this gesture.

I gave the rose that braved my winter,

An array of winter roses.

The flowers seemed to sulk, 

Yet still I hurt myself to hold’em.

The bouquet stained with the pain it demanded.

My effort shamed by its cardinal handle.

I picked all the roses but one,

I couldn't bring myself to bloody your petals.

So I brought you a rose —

Protected by its withered bush,

And this scarlet bouquet.

Hoping you’d feel what I meant by that gesture.

Its thorns chewed through my palms,

But I knew I couldn't pick a rose —

That could embody your perfection.