The roses you bought me are starting to droop.

It’s the early hours of February 15th, you brought me them yesterday afternoon.

I put them in my Nanas old vase, filled with water, almost immediately.

They shouldn’t be dying yet.

Maybe tomorrow, but not today.

Less than 12 hours, and already they’re leaving.

The roses you bought me are wilting.

The red petals are curling in on themselves, and I don’t know why.

I changed the water.

I added flower food.

I cut the stems.

But nothing is working.

The roses you bought me are withering away.

The petals are changing colours.

Many have decided to vacate into the water,.

The leaves are turning brown.

I touch them and they break into a million pieces.

I don’t know why I care so much.

I don’t know why these roses feel special.

The roses you bought me are decaying.

You should be home by now.

But you won’t answer your phone.

You won’t answer your phone and I’m worried.

The roses are decaying.

I feel terrible.

I have a terrible feeling.

There are police at my door.

The roses you bought me are dead. When I arrived home I saw them dead. I got back from the hospital to more dead.

I scatter the dead roses on your grave.