My Broken Rose

My rose
beautiful as can be,
Took your breath away,
Just like it did to me.
Or did the rose become breathless
When it saw you?
When you took it with your hand
And sniffed the life out of it
Saying, Oh, it smells so good?

The next day, my rose no longer had such beauty.
Like a tired, old person it was bent
With brown-edged petals for all to see.
The petals that once were strong,
Are now nothing but fragile and broke.
So was it your fault or hers?
Or was it both?
Because now, my broken rose,
Is dead and growing thorns.