The rose’s thorns
Prick my finger
Almost as much
As their giver
Pricked my heart
I hear his words
A hateful echo
Repeated again
Every sound
From the first
“I like you”
To the last
“Goodbye”
I close my eyes
But his face hides
Behind my tired lids
His perfect face
His bright eyes
His beautiful smile
The perfume
Wafts off the rose
Filling my head
With unwanted
Memories of him
And I still taste
The bitterness
Of his rejection
The sour hint
Of what we were
