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I keep watering a dead rose,
hoping just a little more
and I’ll see it spark to life.
Knowing full well it’s dead,
that no amount of water will bring it back to life.
Years before it died,
a big part of me died too.
It wasn’t until I showed my vulnerability
that I realized that wasn’t true.
I remember when the rose was young,
because I was too.
Back then, I was only a weed,
trying my best not to show
how much I admired a flower
whose presence always made my eyes grow fonder.
Maybe back then I made mistakes,
before either of us knew what we could grow into together.
While the years took the rose and me
in opposite directions,
one long look was all it took
to spark our old connection.
One night, I watched our lives collide,
the spark of life showing how we could have thrived.
I never knew that following what I felt inside
could be the thing that made it lose its life.
I thought if I told the rose
how that night made me feel,
maybe it would confess
that it felt something real.
That maybe the rose would want
to figure out how to keep us together,
even if friendship was the only way
we were meant to continue growing with each other.
When the rose didn’t stay,
I thought I could leave it behind.
Instead, I am left here trying
to stop its thorns from taking over my mind.
What once made me feel free,
even with secrets to hide,
now leaves me drowning in the feeling of “what-if I had done this better?”
Did I give it too much water?
Should I have just let it grow?
Maybe I should have left it alone —
but how was I supposed to know?
Maybe the rose was never mine to save,
or mine to make it stay.
But knowing that doesn’t stop my hands
from reaching for the water anyway.
Maybe one day I’ll put the water down
and let what’s dead remain.
Until then, I’m learning not every rose
I loved was mine to save.
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