The Song of The Rose

Sing me a song, I once asked my Little Prince.

He was sitting on his chair, the only one on his planet, counting sunsets. It was the day of the 44 sunsets.

He turned to look at me as if to check if some weed had grown within the few minutes that passed as he was staring at his sunsets. Then, as if by some absent-minded compulsion, he lifted the sprinkling can and showered my roots. For the 42nd time.

I admire his royal sense of duty, but I am already mushed up from all the sprinkling. One more and I'll be sneezing off my petals. But of course, I didn't tell him that. I am, after all, a flower. I am supposed to make people feel good, not hurt their feelings.

I tried to catch his gaze but was met by an ocean in his eyes.

Sing me a song, I asked again. I miss hearing your voice. But he had already turned to watching his sunsets. Again.

I wanted to hug him, make him feel that he was not alone. That he was loved. But he had already moved to where my roots couldn't follow.

How I wish I could wrap him under my leaves. Frail as I am, I want to shelter him from the cold. But then, my thorns. Dare I make the slightest touch and he will bleed.

I can't walk to him, nor can I touch him. But I can sing, and maybe he will hear me. I closed my eyes, trying to still myself (it was cold), trying to remember the song...

♫ Some say love, it is a river
    that drowns the tender reed...
   Some say love, it is a razor
   that leaves your soul to bleed...
   Some say love, it is a hunger --
   an endless aching need... ♫ ♪

It had gotten warm before I could finish the song. I opened my eyes and saw my reflection where the ocean had been. Was he feeling it in my voice?

♫ It's the heart afraid of breaking
    that never learns to dance
    It's the dream afraid of waking
    that never takes the chance... ♫ ♪

He turned away to catch the 44th sunset.

I was wrong. The ocean was still there, and I wasn't in the reflection.

He had enclosed me in a glass globe to keep me warm through the night.