The sunlight caresses her dark cheeks and she smiles She runs her fingertips over those soft, dewy, red petals of a rose Her bare brown feet step over the broken twigs without a sound The blue sky smiles down at her from above the dogwood trees
Don't ask me to pick flowers for you; love is not picking flowers from a sunny garden. That is destroying something beautiful to get what you want.
Love is holding you when you're at your worst; no you don't look pretty with your wet, distorted face. Love is when you don't care because no flower could compare to my love for you.