...
When my raindrop
flowing down the window
again lost the race
it reminded me of
my love for you;
flowing but failing.

And when the last rose
in the bouquet
you gifted me on
our first date wilted,
I could still hear the joke
you cracked about how
it could be the funeral wreath
when our love dies.

Maybe I should make
a flower crown
from those rusted petals,
and fashion a throne
from their thorns,
so even in my palace of dreams
I won’t forget
the tale of our love.


© lostforever