The shop roses are thorn-free and scentless; tightly-furled buds that would never bloom.
His love will never wither, never die, but gifting her with a mockery, even if her slender fingers will snatch petulantly at the petals, just won't do.
He wants long-stemmed, full-blown roses, to leave her hands smelling of summer dusk; dark green sticks stiff with triangular thorns to snap off and press into skin and prick out a pattern in blood. Wants to drag the thorns down moon-pale flesh and watch it rip and spill crimson and scarlet and red.
Wants stolen graveyard flowers for his love.
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