Rosa Della Morte
Love is the brightest pink of the purest pink rose
and the softest music played from afar.
Its taste is as sweet as chocolate-covered strawberries.
It smells like the air after a fresh rainstorm
and is as picturesque as the crimson sunset.
Love makes me feel warm.
Love is white, the color of religion and spirituality.
It sounds like doves' wings beating delicately against the breeze.
Love tastes like fresh-squeezed wine
and has the fragrance of fresh-washed sheets.
It appears in the form of the blue moon, a rare but beautiful sight.
Love makes me feel whole.
Love is purple like royalty, the color of power and control.
It sounds like a fist crushing your already-breaking heart.
It has the taste of desire, of wanting what you cannot have.
Love smells like sour plums that have not yet ripened,
and it looks like a pasture destroyed by a bloody battle.
Love makes me feel helpless.
Love is the color of the blood that pours from your veins.
It comes in silence and leaves you with a cry of agony.
Its taste is that of bittersweet happiness;
its aroma is like a poisoned perfume, killing anyone who detects it.
You cannot see love, but you know when it's there
because you still feel it when it's gone.
Love makes me feel desolate.
Love is as black as the Reaper's cloak swishing in the darkness.
It sounds like the hearse slowly driving in the streets,
carrying away the dearly departed.
Love taste like unsweetened coffee left out to spoil.
It smells of the blood that was shed and the debts repaid,
and it looks like a cemetery headstone;
it is only a forgotten name, a lost memory.
Love makes me feel dead.
Love is the slowest form of suicide.