In the life of a rose
I've lived and died 100 times
You've watched me open, bloom, wilt, rot
And start over
You watch me again, and again, and again, and again
And each time
My time, measured in light, final breaths, finding, losing
Time, giving so much
And then taking everything away
And I wonder this time, next year
What will it look like?
With my guesses so often, so wrong
I wonder what beginning, what end waits for me
Will I have accepted the things that I cannot change?
And will I have changed the things I cannot accept?
This time, next time, about time.
YOU ARE READING
𝐈𝐈𝐈; 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔
Romancelove is not a reaction or an action; it is not a destiny or a choice. love is a feeling, a real, raw, unscripted emotion so sensationally pure, unable to dull even under the strain of the world against it, strong enough to heal the broken and warm t...