Like the rose was our love,
watered with the best of selves,
soaked in the light of our presence;
flourishing and blooming.
But now memories are crumbling
and our love is withering and fading.
A dead rose is the only remainder
from a life of beauty and admiration.
Now we love in the shadows
and stolen whispers
of the weak and brittle petals
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 11:12 AM UTC
Like the rose was our love,
watered with the best of selves,
soaked in the light of our presence;
flourishing and blooming.
But now memories are crumbling
and our love is withering and fading.
A dead rose is the only remainder
from a life of beauty and admiration.
Now we love in the shadows
and stolen whispers
of the weak and brittle petals
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