I still hold the roses she gave.
Withered, but not for the grave.
I whisper the poems she wrote.
They are like wine to my throat.
But I don't hope for the same.
I don't wish for her to feel this flame.
I know she will forget my pain.
As I was never her first rain.
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 11:48 AM UTC
I still hold the roses she gave.
Withered, but not for the grave.
I whisper the poems she wrote.
They are like wine to my throat.
But I don't hope for the same.
I don't wish for her to feel this flame.
I know she will forget my pain.
As I was never her first rain.
Blessed are those who get dance in the first rain of love.
