Frigid palms of hers,
I held in mine,
What a complementary caress!
Of magma and ice.

Memories I’ve missed,
Of the warmth,
In her tone,
Her laugh,
Her presence,
And the gleam in her eyes,
When she smiled was such a bliss.

Days like those,
With the pitter and patter,
Of rain and our chatter,
About the future unknown,
And the present we cherished,
Where our knees touched,
And fingers entwined.

I loved how it felt,
When her warmth met mine.

You should never listen to roses,
Let alone gaze, smell or touch them.
Gaze it once,
You will never stop thinking of it’s fine features,
Smell its fragrant scent,
And you will never want it to fade.
Touch it,
And its little thorns will ***** your palms,
Leaving none but a crimson mess.

Although I gave it time,
Time wasn’t the matter,
I never learned,
I never did,
That a rose is just a flower.

So I held it and I soothed it,
I praised it and I spoiled it,
For now I am confused,
Or have I been fooled?
Of its fine beauty,
And its elegant ways,

Shall I dig the truth?
Or shall I let it be?
Though I have no clue,
Of what I should do,

One thing is certain,
The rose is as it is,
Who longs for no companion.
Until it needs someone the most.