I loved you like a rose; even as it fades, its grace remains.
To burn with you was worth it—I accepted even your thorns for your smile.
I loved you like a rose; I grew used to your scent and embraced your pain.

I feared neither your thorns nor your silence… because I loved you like a rose.
I loved you like a rose; even if my hands bled, I never stopped touching your beauty.
You were the rose that bloomed in my tears, and love grew out of my pain…

I loved you despite your thorns, because you were beautiful enough to deserve every ache.
I loved you like a rose; neither your fading nor your silence saddened me.
I didn’t love you like one loves a rose— I burned for you like one burns for a rose.

Love with you was like touching a rose: soft, sharp, and real.
You became a rose in my heart; you neither caused storms nor passed by silently.
I loved you like a rose; I inhaled your scent and accepted your pain.

Love began with you—not because of your beauty, but when I faced your thorns.
You were as beautiful as any rose… but I loved you not like everyone, but like one loves one’s scars.
I loved you like a rose; neither distance nor time could wither me.
I washed my wounds with rose water; because they were all your creation.
I loved you like a rose; even in places no one dared to look.
You covered your pain with beauty—and I loved you most there.
I loved you like a rose; even if my heart withered, I loved so it would never bloom again.
Even your thorns became poetry for you; just let your name pass through it.