Pink and happy with a hint of dew,
the colour reminds me of you.
Sitting on a bed of thorns,
it would cut and hurt
yet sway around.
You loved its bloom,
its colour a bright red.
Others would envy
the sight of rouge.
A faint perfume fills the air,
a cool breeze sways it more.
And each petal opens its door.
Then it turns brown
like the mud beneath,
Making way for a bud to bequeath.
Your hands grew the bloom to its youth,
I now wish to take the watering can from you.
Bloom a flower as bright as you,
miles away under a Sun anew.
🌹🌹🌹
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