5 times we met since an “Us” could blossom. It did, 3 times. It was shy on the first one, tentatively observed the atmosphere around. It hid, but it was there. On the second one it was more apparent and we both refrained from letting it grow, for it was the last, and we did not want to pierce each other with the thorns of roses. But you did not want it to be the last and I neither. Then came the third one, later than the others, and more swift as well. The night cleared away the fog in front of our intentions. Our restraint shrank weaker, for this was definitely the last one. I held your hand, the petals of our rose. Time, then, should’ve stopped. But it did not, and you took your delayed leave. Petals morphed into thorns. And the dreadful 2 became 1, and no 1 had any choices.
