I don't love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,
Salts paying with their all-due respect
To the king of all flowers,
The knight that slayed the dragon,
The heart of Gandhi.
A rose.
Petals of old, colors still swimming.
Mind in a fog, transforming
From doggy paddle to breaststroke.
Blooming, accepting the inevitability
That cannot be escaped.
Not trapped, but peacefully neutral.
The situation untapped from outside resources.
Wandering and cautious, her roots take shape completely.
For she is now comfortable with the awestruck moon
That she used to pour out her feelings.
Indifferent about boys, never really saw the point.
Accepts this stalemate as a stoplight retreating.
Going back to red, soon to change color.
Always changing in the universal sun.
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