I love how roses have thorns, yet are symbols of love. 

I guess it’s to show that you’ll only end up getting hurt. 

A nod to protecting yourself. 

I love how they can whither and die, or be preserved forever. 

But it doesn’t mean that their brittle petals won’t be thrown into the air as dust. 

A way to remember, and to let go. 

I love how roses come in a variety. 

Rips in their petals, scars on their stems, missing leaves. 

All things to make it real, more human in a sense. 

I love how they smell, very distinct but very subtle. 

I always thought that they would be strong and bold,

I guess as with love, they are delicate, shifting with the wind. Directions unknown in the moments they live. 

I wouldn't say they are my favorite flower.

But there have been so many coincidences, they have become very dear to me. 

A memory of a Mémère, a grandma of my childhood. 

A thought of a friend, who shared similar struggles to myself. 

A fragment of a love that I can’t let go. 

But these flowers, these beautiful things 

aren’t one in a million. 

No flower is exactly the same, but there are thousands of them. 

A yellow rose will always be a yellow rose 

unless we decide it is more than such; 

A true one in a million, of a million millions. 

But alas, I still love these fickle things, 

so cherish them deeply with me.