Late nights into early morning,
hearts ablaze like shooting stars,
searching for a home that never came,
dashed upon the rocks and slipped away,
a young rose.
Press it in the pages of your heart
that’s cooled by now,
find it in a book that’s stored away.
But I don’t need a photo
to remember who I was
on windy days,
when I was a young rose.
Never saw it bloom like that again,
how it seems simpler now,
but roses go two ways when they are spent:
gone and remembered
or saved and forgot
and the trouble
is letting it die.