Miss Aida
Red for the colour of passion.

Deep, dark red, with the softest velvet petals to the touch. I bring them to my lips, and my nostrils flare slightly, taking in the intoxicating smell of rose. I prick myself and pull back my fingers, steering clear of the thorns as drops of blood ooze from the cut.

Red for romance.

My first flowers, given without flair or drama, without thought or occasion, but just as a passing whim while we walked down the streets. Many a time I have admired flowers from far, but never would I have thought he would pick up a bouquet and present them to me, without fuss. There lies a romantic streak in him after all.

Red for love.

So easily said, the colour of hearts and roses, the flowery description of the feeling so often talked about in the world. And my heart beats faster, not for the flowers, but for the feelings that are attached, for the feelings I can see in his eyes and his smile.

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
My heart is yours
And I love you.
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