You are so much like a rose, that is what he had told him.

He said that his beauty exceeded the loveliness of any full-bloomed rose that had ever been looked upon; his brown hair was like rich soil from which the flower grew, and his eyes, brown with olive green specs like the leaves that complement the bud. His cheeks were naturally dusted by a soft, rosy blush that glows bright whenever he laughs his musical laugh through full, opulent lips.

Stunning, like a rose.

But his heart, as he had put it, was guarded heavily by thorns; sharp, piercing thorns that cut into him whenever he got to close. He thought that maybe he could find a way around the thorns, that maybe he could become close to his heart. He never let down his wall though, never let him in.

Far to guarded to hold for long.

Just like a rose.