It’s not about the roses,
not the petals soft as whispers,
nor the scent that lingers like a dream
fading in the morning light.
It’s about the hands that picked them,
the quiet pause before the gift,
the unspoken hope in trembling fingers,
Will this make you smile?
It’s not about the grandeur,
not moonlit serenades or diamond rings,
but the way your name sounds
when said with love,
the way silence hums between us,
full of things we never need to say.
It’s not about the roses.
It never was.
It’s about the love that stays
long after the flowers fade.
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