The Rose That Grew From Concrete
You told me you loved me.
You promised it was till the end.
That our forever would burn throughout eternity.
That we would hold the hands of time.
Create our own timezone.
Where days and nights would mould into one.
We were supposed to be, till forever.
We vowed to burn so fiercely that the sun would have no place in our orbit.
We were hope to the moon and the stars.
Breath to life beneath my skin.
But when you left me you let slip the dogs of war.
Our forever faded to nothing but stolen glances.
Smiles lost at sea. Wishes on shooting stars.
Pennies in ponds. Whispers at wishing Wells.
I’m at your grave more frequently than my own house.
Then I visited your grave for the twentieth last time.
I found a rose.
So I plucked it and kept it.
Pressed to my chest like we pressed our promises between us.
Because this rose is an echo.
Resounding, that our love could defy laws of nature.
The rose placed within the pages of our vows, is the rose that grew from concrete, the concrete of your headstone.