Fifty-Five

I brought only wildflowers
lost to the softest shadow of
a rose, expert in their travels,
knowing little of the leisurely
kind of love and less fragrant
than a promising heartbreak,
those wildflowers were all I
had – vibrant and yet hidden
behind thorns of another love.
I watched them wither away,
just like every dying rose, as
though no love could be saved.

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