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.