In my room there is a glass vase with dead roses in it.
Even though the drought caught them and turned their colour darker, they’re still beautiful to me.
I won’t touch the petals, because I know they’ll crack.
So I adore them at a distance, I let them be still and look sad.
The perfume of the flowers faded and the wind took away the last smell.
I try to memorise the scent, I remember it well.
The red was too vivid to be alive for too long.
The softness of the petals didn’t last that long, either.
Still, I love the roses as much as I did, the very first day I witnessed, the beauty of these passing works of art.
Although the top has changed, by time and by name, the thorns of the roses are still as deadly as they were.
So, again, I won’t touch.
I will only watch, adore and wait.
Until the last traces of beauty disappear.
And even then I will recall.
The softness of the petals, the smell of the roses that were once here.