As dark as a midnight in the coldest of winters, and an irony as harsh as not,

Within the thorns that pinch like splinters, this kind of rose cannot be bought.

I give it to you because you are my black rose, with a heart so dark and oh so cold.

With petals as thin as ice, and a reflection I watch as my own heart slows.

And with a beauty so compelling to me it is utterly bold.

However unlike most of my roses you have to die.

Nor have you fallen into a state of decay.

Yet in less then the blink of an eye, I learned you would never stay.