I am a weed, and she is a rose.
But it was I who felt your fingertips upon me
You pulled me out:
Not to destroy, but to keep.
But from my pot on the window-sill
I can still see her
Blooming in the sun while I
I am in the curtain’s shadow.
My leaves only wilt and droop
While she blazes like a crimson heart
In the middle of your garden.
I only have one question.
Why, oh why, my love
Did you pick me
When you could have picked her?