The Dark Side is like a rotting rose.
Once full of life and colour, the browning petals are no longer beautiful, their soft curves shrivelled by creeping decay. Once glance is all it takes to know that this flower will no longer bring surprised joy to a lover's face. And yet. The delicate aroma, the wafting scent that she bent to inhale, now fills the room. Is this not better? For although the rose is no longer a gift to the eyes, that was never its true power. No, the true art of a rose was for other senses to behold. Now it is no longer a fleeting pleasure to be grasped for, but a veritable assault on the senses. There is something else there, mingled with it; the sense of smell is designed to warn of dirt, decay, death... but surely, that is not important? A firm mind can overrule objectionable instincts, and the odor permeates all. There is power there now, that will not be disturbed by a sudden breeze or unexpected visitor.
Anakin sits in his wife's apartment, staring at the vase of flowers he had bought for her on a whim from a Coruscanti street merchant. Padmé would have disposed of them before they began to defile her home.
Padmé is dead.
The roses remain.