Her name is Rose.
It slips through my lips like a summer breeze.
It’s warm against my cheeks.
Her skin is
soft to the touch,
her love is
sweet to the taste.
I see her face reflected in the puddles of spring rain,
and I always think of her when the sun hides over the hills,
casting a waterfall of warm colors over my tired face.
Her voice comes to me when I lay down at night.
The darkness fades away to light, and
I can see the future turn to stone.
Sometimes when I can’t sleep quite right,
I’ll take a walk out along the damp grass and
stare at the stars that are hanging overhead.
I hear her melodious voice echo through my ears
whenever the wind takes my breath away.
There’s just something about the sky
that always makes me think of her.
Her name isn’t really Rose.
But still,
that’s what I’ve always called her.
Because every time I see her,
or someone speaks of her,
or I dream of her,
my heart blooms another fifty shades of red.