I would have lied if I said we were a bed of roses. It seemed too much like we were only a bouquet of flowers. I did not tire of watching sun rays bask on our skins. But I have been losing count of sunsets and you have been losing hue. There was never a 'too late to part' and I dread for the sun to rise. You were never a rose with thorns. And there was no beauty in the world; as in a definition. Perhaps you were aware. Your touch on my skin is cold and fear is a monster; you either tame it, or be subdued. If we weren't merely numbers of the yesteryears, I do not understand why these meadows remind me of a barren field.