How can they say a rose
Could be the flower to symbolize
What this feels like?

Its petals fall and fade,
Shrivel away, only to remain
Dry, pressed between a page.

Now I see its clear
A rose is no where near
An appropriate comparison
For this passion.

Like riding a bicycle,
I read somewhere you never forget
The pain that’s there,
Rusting at the gears.
The pedals disappear,
You glide on to the end.
Romance dies, you descend and –

You forget,
All the good there was
All you’ve kept
Is regret and should have done.
Damaged goods,
Labeled ‘Not for sale’.
Why attempt to create
What will only go stale?

I am opposed to those
Who feel they know
“Love is a rose”
That dries up, dies
To decompose
As if it only grows
For its thorns
To be memorized
Like its supposed
To agonize and patronize
All of the hope we find
In a new lovers eyes.

But love is perennial,
Perpetual, and punctual.
It always blooms just in time.