One cold autumn night, you're walking in the park.
You saw the most mesmerizing rose in your life.
It was engulfed in frost, frozen in a facade.
The crystalline exterior sparkled under the crescent moon.
You pondered.
Unknowingly, your hand is outstretched.
Eventually you grasped the stalk in your palm.
The warmth you provided brings you closer to the core.
In such dire state, the flower needs all the tenderness,
akin to how you need such a delightful blossom for the night.
Drop by drop, the blanketing glaze runs down the stem.
Just when you feel you've had it, you tightened your fist.
The melting ice turned red.
It didn't bother you somehow.
The adrenalin from such a heavenly sight must masked the pain.
With the thorns embedded, you couldn't let go.
There you are, feeling nothing, setting your eyes in the petals.
Each petal portrays a beauty of it own,
radiating from the center to form the definition allure.
You grew accustomed to the pain, if there ever was any.
Releasing it will definitely be painful.
Was the rose suffocating in your hands?
It will die off if you had pulled it out...