t minus 10 days / / roses are red, violets are blue, i never liked this type of poems, but i guess the point is that i may be in love with you

almost softer than the air, the petals of the rose kiss her skin, only a small tug away from falling from their stem. so weak, so delicate, they desire their own demise.

hazel's fingers curl around the stem of the flower; the thorns have been deliberately picked off. it took him hours to do, but he searched every centimeter of the stem to assure it was smooth.

henry straightens his jacket carved from leather, and sees the uneasy look in her stormy eyes;he decides to give her time.

time is what she needs.

"thanks," hazel speaks softly, "i don't find flowers to be that romantic, though..."

henry's shoulders relax, and he presses his back into the wall, his shoulder brushing against hers. "it's not a romantic gesture, don't worry."

hazel sighs in relief, but her brows furrow in confusion.

sensing her bafflement, henry turns his body so that he's facing hers.

"rip it apart," he says, watching her expression closely for a reaction. he studies her as the air pokes a dimple in her chin; her face seems healthier than it did a few days ago, more nourished, cheeks a bit more full, perfect for gracing the blush that often invades them.

"why? Is this some weird type of metaphor?" she shakes her head. days get harder before they get easier, but she keeps her troubles a secret; they're blind to their own toxicity.

"it's whatever you want it to be." he knows. she doesn't realize it, but he knows.

hesitantly, her fingers trace the first petal to its root, and silently, she whispers an apology as she plucks it from its home, and loosens her fingers so that it drifts to the ground soundlessly, only to rest upon dewy grass.

as she keeps going, one petal after another, she feels a knot in her stomach, tightening until all that is left is a seemingly thornless and petal-less stem. suddenly, she feels for it; it's lost its beauty the way she's lose her precious sight, and perhaps they are not the same, but Hazel is nothing like a rose to begin with.

"what was the point of that?" she sighs as her fingers tighten around the bare stem, though she has ideas floating in her mind. suddenly, she feels a prick to her thumb, but tucks the wounded finger inside her first so that henry cannot see. he hadn't thought of the possibility of hidden thorns beneath the petals, but

it's okay.

silence makes his appearance punctually, wedging himself between the entangled souls.

"it's still a flower, right?" his heart is suddenly beating frantically behind his chest as he awaits a reaction he has trouble predicting.

he's taken a risk,

and some risks are worth taking.

hazel hugs the stem to her chest, careful to avoid the single thorn, and feels it dig into the bare skin above her collarbone. 

she counts her breaths,

one

two

three

"it is."