A love that blooms
is not forgotten by a rose;
a rose whose thorns prevent her from being plucked,
from being wanted.
And he who struggled to hold her and love her;
he whose hands bled crimson red;
he who gave her all that his mortal soul could muster,
is not forgotten,
nor unwanted.
And as for the dreams that bound those hearts together-
they have all melted,
wrapped into the green leaves of a rose,
who still loves deeply,
despite herself.
And when the summer heat comes to burn away the rose into no more than perfumed dust,
she will remember his sacrifice-
of loving beyond measure,
and to leave even though it broke both of their hearts...
As the crimson fades from her petals,
and the blooms are no longer sweet,
she knows that the blood drips not from her wounded heart,
but from his...
And so she whispers
''I'm sorry...''
even though she knows he cannot hear her.