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Our Rose
February 20, 2011
The soft sillky, limp petal softly kissed the side of my cheek.
Red as blood, cold as death, but dangerously beautiful.
Every soft held caress promising a outcome.
Some holding joy but the rest, holding stabbingly painful memories of what was; what use to be.
The silkiness turns into harsh bitter cold, hating everything including itself.
Slowly and softly the bitter cold hands of hate destroy what use to be a beautifuly amazing thing.
The rose has wilted and died, just like our love.
© Yisrawayl G., Philadelphia, PA
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