Ode to the pink, the purple, the perfect day

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I never liked roses much.Until that day. When I was decorating a celestial bed. And spreading all those petals away.

Peeling off petals from a bloom; now that’s a gentle and delicate affair. Their softness on your fingertips linger. The more they’re gone, the more they’re there.

Much like some people one shares a lot with. Deep scarlet memories and deep scented times. Then they leave or get distant. Decaying from brilliant spotlight. To a fading hint of a jaded shine.

One’s left with only a bald stem, sure. One that’s also a bit hurtful to hold. But you look at the quilt and you see what it’s bedecked with. And you’re thankful for what you had in the fold.

This time, it won’t be for a starry night. Or a dazzling day beyond. It’ll be for the dawn with the shying light. I’ll be grateful for the thorns.

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone.

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