What is it about roses
Sometimes I think they’re the snob of flowers
They’re a flower of unhinged emotion
Roses
They don’t inspire a tenderness when I think about them
They’re too regal
Pity, yes
I pity them
They’re so put together
Always put together with a tangible tirelessness
And yet, yet there is this untamed wildness about them
Roses, I don’t think they’re a flower of light
Not even the white roses, or the yellow ones
And we decided it’s the flower of love
It makes sense that it is the flower of love
We can’t grasp it, can’t fully define it
I picked up two roses
Bruised roses
I found them in the dirt
Their petals broken
I keep them in my book
Bookmarks