He Left His Rose

He placed it gently on the stone,

A single rose, now left alone.

Its crimson petals kissed the ground,

But not a heartbeat made a sound.

He whispered words the wind would keep,

Then turned and walked through grass knee-deep.

No final glance, no trembling sigh—

Just silence as the clouds passed by.

The rose remained, through dusk and rain,

A memory blooming out of pain.

For love had lived and love had gone,

But still that flower lingered on.

And some who passed would stop and stare,

At something quiet resting there—

Not knowing all the hurt it chose,

The day that he had left his rose.