If lovers are Roses, I’m only wilted petals.
I’m grocery store quality in a room full of long stems.

If lovers are Roses, Im hanging upside down to keep shape.

I’m stiffening in between your favorite pages of your heaviest book.

If lovers are Roses, it’s March and I’m in Februrary’s vase.

I’m sweet smelling rot, too valuable to throw away but too far gone to salvage now.

If lovers are Roses, I’m a sunset beauty sprawled across the largest building.
Spread thin as paper
searching for your empty space to bloom in.

And you’re a hybrid tea
standing tall with strong stems
colorful and bountiful and pleasing to the eye.

See, I am a Rose, technically. But I am only the thorny bush standing in the way of beauty. I have trouble blooming. I’m prickly and messy and my branches unruly. My petals are brown and my buds are drooping. I don’t thrive in any climate but I fit into every decor. I can adapt to many things but love isn’t one of them.

I’m not really capable of being watered and groomed.

And see, you are beautiful landscape. You are pruned and proper and perfect for any weather. You’re watered and fertilized, easy to please and soft on the eyes. You’re a perfume makers dream, neatly lined rows, gleaming.

I’m just wondering how we ended up in the same yard.