His Roses

Bittersweet are his words, which I love and long to read; in each and every form do they touch me so. In them, am I reminded of a rose; sweet and soft, words like fresh picked petals cascading down upon a blank white slate.

To the naked eye, are they written in black; though I read them in red, for red is the color of passion. In passion is his entire being created; it dwells within his heart and soul, it is found in his happiness and sadness. I take pleasure in each and every one he plucks for me, grateful that he cares enough to send me something as beautiful as roses. 

Like thorns, can his sweet words so deftly sting; for there is passion never to be seen, touched or felt; the good and bad. For in words, will I only ever know that such exists. Though, will I forever savor each of them alone; ones from the heart and so passionately written, my cascading petals upon a blank white slate. 

From my sweetest friend afar, I'm sure a garden of words will he grow, sweet though full of thorns. May he always send me roses, as I send him my very own.