Scroll and Rose

As this scroll, I may be burned. Like this scroll, I may have rough edges. Like this scroll, I may not be perfect. Like this scroll, I may be old and rugged. But my heart is full of space space to write your name, space to emboss your nametag, space to write our story. Like our love, full of nests, not everything broken is useless. It may grow into the wondrous gift of a rose. Like our book of love, some things are written on fragile pages, yet they remain to retell and to live, to live—soft, and matched with unashamed thorns. Let me tell you: not every scar is the end. Our life may be surrounded by thorns and thistles, but the rose is on its way to blossom in glory. Memory, truth, and love endure forever. Like a rose in a fire-kissed garden, it grows still, in a quiet and undefeated orchard. It whispers: the seed of love can survive and thrive in windy and dusty bombshells.