Roses

She smelt like roses,

not fresh-picked,

But petals folded slowly

into the quiet spaces

where light forgets to go.

The scent drifts soft and warm,

a golden thread weaving through the air,

a ghost that lingers,

never quite here,

never quite gone.

She’s pretty like a rose,

soft and radiant,

with quiet thorns

that trace the edges

of every memory.

The scent pulls me in,

a gentle sting beneath the skin,

a breath that folds the dark,

carrying whispers

of moments caught in light,

petals pressed between fingers,

laughter held in the hush.

At night, the roses whisper,

glowing soft in the dark,

folded in the silence,

tracing the shape of absence

with every silent bloom.

And in that scent,

she lingers,

a ghost of rose light

soft as a sigh,

far beyond my reach.