I am often asked about the significance of the Purple Rose—why its color, why a rose at all. A single act of intentional love breathed life into what would become a cathedral of words, a monument of symbols—embedded within the literature of the universe, like my love for her—destined to endure long beyond my own life.

January 2025 — I find myself trying to reach out to someone. Ties have been disconnected; communication is not as I had hoped—not as I had envisioned even a month prior. I remember searching for a rose. After some thought, I settled on the color purple, unknowingly giving birth to something far greater than I could have imagined in that moment. I chose four purple roses in a white box to send with letters—a gesture that fell somewhere between a birthday and Valentine’s offering.

I don’t regret my failed attempt at reconnection. For what is the weight of life, if not the balance between regret and hope—between the decisions made and the ones we wish we could revisit?

August 2025 — I am creating my publishing company. Now begins the formation of something I have long contemplated—not in obsession, but in a gentle thought that refuses to leave my mind. One that reawakens with the rare text or phone call that fades back into silence, yet always stirs the same reflection.

The name Purple Rose, like everything woven between the pages, carries a deep meaning. It’s more than a color, more than a flower—it’s a symbol born from devotion. In the very first poem of the book, I describe what this rose truly means to me. It is a symbol of her—a representation of the uniqueness of someone who carried herself differently than anyone I have ever known.

There are people who enter our lives to help us change for the better, to guide us toward the person we’re meant to become. In my case, she recognized me—saw me for who I truly was—and loved that version of me the way I loved her.

October 29, 2025 — I am leaving St. Louis on a flight to Raleigh. The trip is short: two and a half days of meetings, marketing negotiations, and an interview with a news network. As the plane ascends, I find myself thinking that once this book is fully out, this is the final attempt at an open door.

Within two weeks, my name will appear on billboards, Spotify ads, in newspapers, across Google, Facebook, and other social platforms—joining the few articles already telling the story of why I wrote this book. I sit here, two weeks away from Purple Rose: The Stars Carry Her Name — Letters from Me to Her being available worldwide—on Amazon, IngramSpark, Barnes & Noble, Apple Books, and everywhere stories find their readers.

I remember the last time I left this city—you were with me. And now, I am about to accomplish something that began in the purity of love, yet stands strong enough to endure on its own. Work worthy to be read by anyone who feels its pull.

Soon, I will be unmistakably visible—undeniably, unapologetically standing in the world—seen by all through everything I post and write, yet still speaking to one: to her. Perhaps her curious, Aquarius mind will wander. Perhaps I’ll be seen by eyes that blink and forget my name, as though a passing car on the opposite side of the highway. If that is the case, I have made peace.

But I am a hopeful romantic. And to not be reduced to a passing moment, I have chosen a billboard—for that reason. You can move around me, but I am there. Not to interfere in a life I’m no longer part of, but to simply be seen.

And if seen I am—if all that I am is seen—then when the last page meets the back cover of Purple Rose: The Stars Carry Her Name – Letters from Me to Her, I will allow my mind to bury those intentions for her. Though alive, breathing, dreaming, I will bury them in the proverbial soil of my soul—until a time when they may either resurface or rest. Never to sleep in this life, but perhaps to reawaken in the next, when we find each other again.

A rose, by nature, is a quiet lesson in resilience: it creates beauty wherever it grows, defies storms, stands tall through the rain, and never forgets to bloom. Its power lies in its softness. The Purple Rose is all of that—it is her. It is her name. It is everything she meant to me, captured in color, in words, in symbol.

Simply put, Purple Rose—the name of the book, the name of the publishing company—is Her.

A constant reminder of the divinity I did indeed encounter—to touch, to love, to know—in the way most only pray to experience a deity. I was chosen, and even if only for a time, it was something powerful enough to change me forever.

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October 29, 2025 — 2:42 PM, Raleigh, North Carolina

You are and always will be, my Purple Rose.