You’re like a pot of rose.

Plagued with aphids and rust, needing care.

After all those careful watering, you grow thorns.

You prick me, hurting me; though never will I know if it’s intentional.

You see, I don’t speak plants, and it does not speak human.

Then at times you bloom with abundant of flowers, surrounding the atmosphere with your beautiful fragrance.

Then come me. I’m like a novice gardener, with first time with everything.

I overwatered, rotting your roots.

I had to unearthed you to fix the damage I’ve done, causing stress and stunted growth.

When life gets busy, I then forgot to water you.

Leaving you suffer in thirst, hampering your bloom.

But I love this pot of rose, and I’d like to think he loves me too.

No matter how prickly and temperamental, I still pray for it’s bloom.

No matter how much maintenance it needs, it is my pot of rose.

I’ll always be the gardener, and I have a tender rose I call mine.