The last pink rose of winter

Pink pink like the lipstick she wore, her painted face bedazzled me,

Like a china doll with eyes that never close, she saw me,

I tried to hide,  I took my love away,  I never spoke a word.

I was transparent but like a silhouette my shadow gave me away,

I couldn’t make myself small or tidy myself away.

My love for her stood out like a beacon for all to see

I was naked and more visible than I’d ever have wanted to be

I knew the days were numbered as such beauty never lasts as long as we would desire

I sat in my garden watching the seasons change

The flowers bloom, the leaves fall from the trees and there I am

And here I still am, with a withered rose in my hand pressed flowers attempting to hold the memory.

But that rose is the same as love, destined to wither and die regardless even if you treasure them  inside a book

My book has many pages and even if I could compress my love and my history like a flower, I would never choose to do so.

The last day of the pinkest rose dying before winter is the same as my broken heart

But the rose kept its beauty, where as I did not.

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Isa, Lily The Pink