His Rose

He gave me a rose,

a tribute of his fame

for a fan I am,

simply because I came.

I put the rose in a vase

placed it on the table,

so that everyone could see

what he had given me.

The night had been something,

but I had been through it before.

He preformed like a star, 

and I admired his talent from afar.

I was like everyone else,

meant to sit back and watch him--

and wait.

At the end of the show,

when finally we could speak,

many admirers surrounded him already

but I was used to it:

his ego and fame.

It was a part of him,

and made him happy.

That's what really mattered to me.

I got my hug,

and a hello.

I let him know that he was the star of the show.

He had me follow him

as he thanked them all for coming,

I stood back and watched him

I felt like I was drowning.

Finally, I had him

as much to myself as it would be.

He'd given four others the flower,

and I wonder if he felt obligated to give one to me.

But when he got down on his knee

I wondered if maybe he really did care about me.

I don't mean like love or lust,

I'm fairly certain those feelings are above us.

But a brother and sister bond I can understand,

or maybe even that crush I had upon him,

still had some strength,

and maybe he was just showing what a gentleman he can be.

Whatever the reason,

the reason he felt that he

needed to drop down upon one knee

and ask for my hand

is above me.

'Baylee, would you take this flower

to have and to hold,

until it dies.'

He knew how to flatter me,

to make my face turn red,

almost four years he's been playing with my head.

I accepted his gift

with a smile too real to pretend it was fake.

I couldn't help but to instinctively smell it,

so sweet and strong.

The night had to come to an end,

so he hugged the other girl,

then looked at me.

'I saved you for last,

so that it'd be more special'

I wondered if he meant it,

or if he'd say that to any girl had to hug last.

But I hugged him tight,

wrapped my arms around him,

one of the better hugs I've given.

I savored it,

I wouldn't have let go if I didn't have to,

I'd miss him when he was gone,

I always do.

He plucked the hat off my head,

and told us farewell.

Now the rose sits on my table,

in a vase,

for me to see just in case

I forget,

where happiness lies.

But I know,

that the flower will die.

In no time at all, it will lay wilted before me.

As my spirit falls with it,

because I know he'll soon forget me.