If wishes feel like rain, then you’d be my rose with morning dew.

If my wishes were like roses, then you’d be their soil.

If the soils feel empty, then I’d bring fire.

If my fire fed your earth, your breath would breathe me.

Your air will thin as resent for me thickens.

Are tears an acception?

My wishes would flow down my cheek and put myself out.

Your bud could bloom, but all until we begin again.

We love like nature, to oddly be against it.