Red like the dress you wore when I first met you.
You were beautiful.
And you still are.

Roses are red.
Red like the lipstick which stained my cheek the first time you kissed me.
And all other times you did.

Roses are red.
Red like the sky
when you said goodbye.
Or like the dry eyes
I had every time I cried.

Roses are red.
Red as the blood that stained the silver bullet which pierced through your skin.
Roses are red.
Red like the heart that shattered into a million, countless fractals for you.

Roses are red.

As you lie in your hospital bed, dead, never coming back.
You won't come back.
You can't come back.

Roses are red like the one I'm holding, tightly
I don't care if I get hurt.
I don't care if the sharp thorns pierce through my fragile skin the way the bullet shattered all what could've and what would've been's.
All I want is for you to come back.
I want you to come back.
I need you to come back.
Please come back.
Please.

Roses are red.
And will always be red.
Always for you.