the rose is a symbol for love.
and what a love story it could tell!
if only it could part its crimson lips and speak it
what started off peeking out of nothing,
and out of nothing it grew,
fed only on intangible and wild hopes
it feasted on light touches and
filled up with desire
but
what it loved could never love it back
and so then grew thorns
keeping out the rest of the world
scaring off children
pricking fingers that dropped blood the color
of the petals.
the droplets fed the rose,
the acidic liquid parching its tendrils
but though it but up a fence around itself,
if one knew where to hold it,
one could touch it lightly,
and feed its passionate dreams.
and so I present a rose to you.
a rose with a story told a million times to silent crowds.
a rose whose story fell on deaf ears
a rose to bundle my feelings into a tangible,
real object.
touch its velvet petals and remember my hair.
get pricked by its thorns and remember my wit
inhale its aroma and remember my justice
take this rose now.
a rose whose story belongs to you now.
Take care of this story, and of this rose.
and take care of me
For we have been through much together.