You Gave Me a Rose Garden, I Wanted Your Love

You Gave Me a Rose Garden, I Wanted Your Love

You brought me blooms with trembling hands,

Planted beauty in empty lands.

Told me, “Look, it’s all for you?

Each thorn, each petal, soaked in dew.”

But you never stayed to see them grow.

You gave me flowers, not the glow

Of warmth that lingers in a room

When two hearts share a single gloom.

You tended stems, not me, not us,

Spoke through blossoms, not through trust.

Your hands were dirt-stained, never near.

You built a garden, not a year.

And when I called for touch, not leaves,

You offered petals, soft reprieves.

But blooms don’t hold the weight of skin.

Blooms bend, they fade. They don’t begin.

So keep your rose beds, let them thrive.

I needed love to feel alive.

And while you pruned, and watched things start,

I wilted silent in your heart.