He was a weed in the garden of life.
I was his flower, but never his wife.
He came without fragrance.
No thorns, yet no frills,
and each time they cut him, he grew stronger still.
He was sweet like the clover as we played in the field
He knew who he was, and his laughter was real.
We baked in the sun, and we huddled for need.
But we had no illusions, we planted no seeds.
One day the rain came and I was not his rose.
We both left the garden. And that\'s how life goes.