If I would to describe her, I would say she was a wild rose. Redder than any of her kinds as by her presence, they would blush in shame.

If one were to mention a white rose, I would say they haven't lied their eyes on her as none would be as pale as her complexion. Those white petals would turn away in envy.

Then how would I deduce her presence, you ask?

She was a presence blooming madly in red. Wild, dangerously seductive, and untamed. One look was all it took to take one's breath away.

And that was how the wild rose captivated the Adonis.

But, could he handle her thorns bearing sharp at those who tried to take her?

Could he accept every part of the rose even when he realized there was no longer honey but merely morning dew that slipped through her petals like a rain of tears?

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