Yoohyeon liked to think she's a canvas, her skin inked in flowers in bloom, a spring to represent all that she feels behind flipping middle fingers and smokey eyes and tastes of cigarette.

she loves me not. she loves me.

Everyday, dark heels would block her view of the sidewalk as she sits by the bus station, a girl with her black inked blazers waiting beside her, legs crossed and every time, as her hair falls down to the side of her face, Yoohyeon would be trying get a clearer glimpse of her.

she loves me. she loves me not.

In her arm is rose pink roses, blossoming, blooming out with the absence of thorns because it was just beautiful and kind and as the vines curls around it, there embedded her name, Yoohyeon would always know her name.

she loves me not. she loves me.

They met in a garden of thorns and roses and she was rough on the edges, she was leather jackets and motorbikes but Lee Siyeon was pencil skirts and subtle fragility behind the flutter of her lashes. 

Yoohyeon liked flowers and roses and boutiques but Lee Siyeon was the imperfect spring, cheeks red when a myriad of compliments flows out of Yoohyeon's lips and in that moment, she thinks Siyeon is a million times and more beautiful than a flower.

she loves me she loves me she loves me

Limbs tangled, fingers intertwined, Yoohyeon breathes in the scent of Siyeon's hair as she buries herself into her embrace, a content smile painted into her lips.

She remembers the rose petals she used to pluck for every hopes and disappointments, remembers how she was bitter and blue but Siyeon was beautiful, passion, love and red and as she presses a kiss on Siyeon's closed eyelids, Yoohyeon plucks off the last petal for hope and clings to it.

she loves me.