You know, sometimes,
I believe love is quite like
A rose,
A bright, blooming, and bewitching
Red rose,
Flourishing in lust,
But haunting you with sharp thorns,
Wanting to unexpectedly shatter,
The vulnerable heart to a fine dust.

Did it hurt?
When the gnashing thorns
Of your very own rose,
Nestled deep inside your fragile heart,
Came tearing out, exposing your weak flesh,
Slowly seeping a crimson river of melancholy down
The hammering silence of your chest.

Did it hurt?
To feel the agonizing impulse of your
Rose gradually dying,
Screaming for a flame of affection
To feed its parched body before
Its lifeless stem gave way,
To a mangled mess of misery.

A human is not a perennial,
It cannot be ripped up from the roots, peeled of the petals,
And continuously bloom over and over again without a struggle,
You forgot, briefly my love, that
It is delicate and feeble,
Not vigorous.