A friend is a rose.

A friend is the whole of a rose,
from the little roots that keep it grounded
to its fetching petals
and everything in between.

Even the things overlooked by most eyes.

A friend is a rose, don't you think?

Friends were feasts for the eyes
who made you flush your face
like how roses redden your cheeks
when you see their scarlet petals.

Friends were many people hidden in one
like how roses are merely many petals
huddling in layers.

You loved holding roses.

You loved the way they feel in your hand.
How their soft petals brushed against your palm,
how firm their stem feels,
you loved holding them

even though they have thorns.

Even though they hurt you.

No matter how often they pricked you—
and perhaps drew blood
as red as their crown of crimson—
you couldn't help but hold dear
and refuse to let go.

The same way we clung to friends.

You loved having roses.

You loved gathering them in little bouquets
and binding them
with silk ribbons
like how you bound us with friendship.

You love roses
the same way you loved your friends.

Oh how I pity those
who have no rose!
I pity those rose-less because of their own doing,
those too impatient
so they snatch some scissors and snip at the stem
for they found one thorn
and found it one thorn too many.

I pity those roses
who grow from unyielding ground,
desperate for water
or shade from harsh sun,
yet no one tends to them
so they shrivel
and die.

I pity those who buy roses
only to dump them when they're no longer of need.

I pity those who own fake roses
and pretend they're the same.

I pity those who display roses
like trophies
as nothing more but showpieces to brag about
and I pity the roses who mistake the spotlight
for another sun.

A friend is a rose
but a true friend is a gardener.

A gardener who tends to his roses,
who handles them with care in spite of their spikes,
who waters them with love when they thirst,
the sun incarnate when days are dark
and usher of shade when the rays are too harsh.

I'm sorry if I didn't have a green thumb.