Nothing But Roses

He had callused fingers three inches deep into my hair, holding on like “Rapunzel, Rapunzel,” and I listened to him cry. His body creaked with a hurricane of sobs, and he just held on to our hug.

He said, “I’ve never cried in front of anyone before,” and I believed him. His eyes looked at me like squished grapes and his nose sniffled like a leaky faucet, and I cradled the eye of the storm. 

Our next date, he held his arms behind his back. I said, “What do you have there?” 

He presented them to me and replied, “Nothing but roses.” 

He had constellation freckles across his face, and I couldn’t help but touch every one even though I prefer the moon to the stars. His supernova eyes reached out in green shades of love, so I wrapped my little hands around the rose thorns.  

I had splinters for three months until I left him. He cried again, but with thorns in my palms, I could do nothing to comfort him. 

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