I see the blue rose every day when I wake up,
Bathed in morning light like a quiet dream.
They say it's the rarest of roses,
A myth, a whisper,
But here it was, right in front of me.
An absolute miracle.

I told my friends,
My mother, the coworkers, even the barista downstairs.
They nodded politely,
Eyes heavy with concern,
"Roses aren't blue," they said.
But I know what I see.

Its petals curled like secrets,
The hue deep as ocean and soft as sleep,
It never wilted, never faded,
Each day it just stood there, impossibly perfect.
I watched it in silence,
Let it anchor my mornings in something beautiful,
Something no one else could steal.

I wrote about it.
Painted it.
Sang to it in off-key hymns before my coffee.
My little defiance of reason,
My impossible companion.

And finally, one day,
Heart racing like it knew the truth before I did,
I reached out, hand trembling,
And opened the window.

The wind rushed-in, sharp, cold, real.
There was a rose, yes.
But white.
Elegant, delicate, honest.

It wasn't the rose that was blue.
It was the glass.

I stood there, hollowed out by revelation,
Gripping the windowsill like a ledge.
It was never real.
But in some strange way,
It was still mine.
The dream. The belief. The ache.
Even if it was all just light and illusion.
For a time,
It gave me something to believe in.

And maybe that
Was the miracle all along.