Our love was sweet and tender, Like a rose in it’s prime, it bloomed, uninhibited in it’s beauty,
Under the glare of the noon day sun, we ran through the fields,mirth echoing through the valley, hopelessly intoxicated in the moment, letting our hearts run free.
Moonlight, soft and gentle in it’s caress, entwined our hearts. Oh, the joy of newly found love! It’s heady fragrance could make one but swoon!
From mine lips, did I not bare my heart’s content, but words were a convention, a formality that need not have been met. Shakespeare did not ere ; “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet”.
But beauty is fleeting, as is a rose, as is love.
With time, the night, no longer a chance for a stolen passionate embrace from prying eyes, it embraced the cry of a broken heart, the wail of a lost soul.
Our rose, no longer abloom, began it’s slow death.
Our love is now a distant memory, captured between the four corners of a photograph, It’s edges browned with age.
My heart knows you no more, and yet it warms at the memory of a younger me and a younger you and a time when the rose blossomed.