Valentine and Roses
On the porch I sat,
With a red rose on a mat.
Observing the beauty of the flower,
And wondering if it is the right hour.
The floral leaf under my finger,
Soft and delicate just like her,
"Will it hurt?" I asked,
Twirling the little nature's craft.
She likes me,
She likes me not.
With extreme care I pulled out a petal,
The lifeless skin was as cold as metal.
Hurting the bloom not my plan
All I wanted was to be her man.
She likes me,
She likes me not.
The exquisite fragile thing remained no more,
One last red silk stayed on the core.
"She likes me!" I said aloud,
Emotionally teleported to the ninth cloud.
Nervously I rang her doorbell,
Building up confidence to finally tell.
She swiftly opened the gate,
Now, it is the play of fates.
"Will you be my valentine?"
Escaped the words of mine.
Her blank face blushed red,
"He likes me." She said.
He likes me,
He likes me not.
The final petal she pulled out,
Her happiness explicably loud.
The green stems we exchanged,
The fragrance of love was all which remained.