A Withered Rose

Have you ever loved a withered rose unconditionally? A rose which, long suppressed in the yellow pages of your diary, with the essence of a

beautiful past that leads to the passage of some unforgettable moment. If you have kissed it in the flow of your innocence, trust me you are the luckiest one.

At least, I have loved its ordinary beauty from the very fast day when I took oath of keeping it close to my heart. My teary eyes while receiving it depicted how much it meant to me. I saw him stuttering badly and persuading me to close my eyes and I, unaccustomed and confused with the situation had no way left to get surprised when he proceeded with that rose. That rose with the touch of velvety texture

In it petals seems smiling. Words can never do the justice if I start explaining how Ii exactly felt. I never did anything to deserve it and all of a sudden, I got crowned with it. But now, I make sure to never get it split with my soul. I too feel painful when I see it getting a little more cracked and weaker with each passing day. Cursing yourself for its havoc transformation from beauty to wither can be peculiar for me, but it’s normal for me. You can surpass saying “Every living thing withers. It’s universal and unavoidable!”, but i can’t, as i have seen him in the hidden

metaphors of this rose. I have seen him disappointing doing injustice with me, so how can i stay unloving his boon?

I never could, and still can’t.

I can’t stay being cruel unseeing his love. Whenever I get time, I touch the sick petals softly so that they don’t cloak while breathing, they don’t fall down in front of eyes. It might seem strange to hear, but i am too possessive to handle, especially with my priorities. One day when he found me restlessly tracing for a healing touch for my withered soul, he came in my rescue, cured me and gifted me his love as this rose. He painted

the strokes of incomprehensible love to my skin and made me out of this endangered zone of my impotent life.

Now, this rose too needs a healing love, a love doesn’t go to procedure of judgemental measurements. It’s my turn to take all the responsibilities.

Stories really do never end.

Some stay unfinished, and some just forcefully face an ending point, now it has become a symbol of our love, a living embodiment of our unison, and an igniting example of our passion.

The stories this rose behold is something evergreen, those sleepless nights straining for a fistful sleep and after one glimpse, it resurrected my sleep

back and many more prominent stories. My love for it unknowingly originated a new notion;

A notion of lunatic love and a notion of impeccable serenity.