Ever since my infatuation started I've been warned,
Don't pick her up,
Don't make yourself vulnerable to her thorns.
I don't know if it's the color or the scent,
but I just can't put herdown.
I'm lost in her brilliance and wrapped up in herdelicacy.
I handle what I have as if she were the most fragile thing
in the world,
I guess I overreact when a petal falls to the ground.
I grow wary when I realize there are more than enough
other bees, that in their boisterous manner want to land
I am afraid of my loss, but it does not matter.
I start to realize that it's not me holding the rose but
the rose holding me.
I'm engulfed in her petals and in her aroma,
from that moment on I realize why I took the risk of the
thorn pricking me, because at that moment I realize what
true happiness is.
At the same time I look at what I have in my hand and
wonder how beautiful it would be all alone in the middle
of a field, and I wonder how selfish I really am.
Through whatever lies before me I trudge thinking of her
The storm weathers my every possession, shoes wet, jacket
soaked, socks squishing.
I reach into my pocket and find that the only thing that
has beaten the storm is my white rose.
I see so many of them out in the field sometimes. Houses
crumble before the storms yet they stand strong and
I worry about her welfare, and realize my luck.
My rose caresses my hand as another petal falls to the
I put it back into my pocket, knowing that even if all the
petals were to fall off, I'd still have something more
beautiful than anyone else.
My rose has something that none other has.
She is special in her beauty, a beauty which doesn't have
to rely on petals.