They’re not terrible. They’re not beautiful. They’re not dead, but they’re rotting.

The roses in the vase that you once gave me, are losing their color.

They are losing their scent. Their thorns fall off with a touch.

You used to keep one by your bed. One of the twelve.

When it started to wither and cave in on itself, you replaced them. It was a simple gesture. It showed how much you love me.

But now they sit on my bedside table, forgotten.

I’ve taken good care of them. I watered them. Gave them sun. Talked to them. Loved them. Why do they die?

Why did you leave me? I ask myself each night. What more did you need from me? Did I not care enough? Did I forget something vital?

Or was it just your time?

We are like a rose. Always appearing to show affection and love. To be a constant reminder of passion.

What happens when the roses begin to die? Does it mean you don’t care? Does it mean you’ve forgotten me?

Or did I do as much as I could?

Their thorns and protection falls down, as do my walls. I’ve built them up to keep from getting hurt, but now they have crumbled at my feet.

Their petals fall, as do my tears. Shrinking the longer they lay. Maybe it’s acceptance. Maybe it’s grief. Maybe it’s knowing it’s finally our time.

We are like a rose. Never permanent, but a temporary beauty. Never there forever, but a small joy in life.

You were a picker. A chooser. You had to decide to give me love and it changed with the seasons. You couldn’t keep the roses alive. You saw something pretty and took it.

You’ll always be my first love, but maybe it’s time I accept the loss and find myself a gardener.