Ashes of Roses
Our love was like roses. Beautiful, delicate, romantic, and colorful.
But roses die.
In our case, our love didn't die. It didn't even wither or droop for a minute of our relationship. She was the one who threw it away. She was the one who forced me to throw the roses into the flames.
I didn't want to. I didn't want to at all. But what was I suppose to do with the roses? I couldn't keep it, no, that would have been pointless.
No, she had chosen, and I knew she chose the one whom she really loved, the one whom she really loved, all along. Even when she was with me, she loved him. I suppose she loved me too, but she loved him more, much more than she would or could ever love me.
So I threw them into the fire. I threw the roses into the fire.
They were beautiful, but roses aren't things that get prettier over time.
Unless you preserve them, take care of them; nourish them.
They were a light pink, like her lips and cheek.
They were soft, like her skin.
They even smelled like her.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all.
If he hadn't come back, she would still be here, with me.
And the roses wouldn't be in the fire. They would still be blossoming. I had to burn them; I just had to. I had to get rid of them. They painfully reminded me too much of her, they reminded me of everything about her, and I couldn't, wouldn't take that.
I watch as the fire slowly consumes the roses.
The colors are magnificent: red, orange, and gold, yellow, pink...
I didn't know that roses had thorns. Or rather, I knew they had thorns, but I didn't know how sharp those thorns could be.
I didn't expect those thorns to prick me, even though in the back of my mind, I always knew there was that possibility, that chance, however small it was, the chance that the thorns would prick me, and I would bleed. I'm bleeding now.
The roses are gone now; there is only a small pile of ashes left. Black and gray ashes, so very different from the original roses. So very bleak, gloomy, but the scent of roses are still among the ashes, like a lingering presence. It will always be there, the aroma of her, the aroma of love, the aroma of happiness.
These ashes that sit here in front of me, in the hearth of my fireplace, are just a mere shadow of our once love. They aren't even a tiny part of what it was like, because ashes bear no resemblance to roses whatsoever, don't you think? And yet, the ashes still smells like roses, the ashes still have flecks of palest pink scattered among the black and gray. The ashes have reminders, too, of the love we once had. No, that's not right. I still love her, and I will always love her. So I still hold our love near to me, she doesn't, but I do.
The ashes are still warm.
Our love was like roses. Beautiful, delicate, romantic, and colorful.
But roses die.
In our case, our love didn't die. It didn't even wither or droop for a minute of our relationship. She was the one who threw it away. She was the one who forced me to throw the roses into the flames.
I didn't want to. I didn't want to at all. But what was I suppose to do with the roses? I couldn't keep it, no, that would have been pointless.
No, she had chosen, and I knew she chose the one whom she really loved, the one whom she really loved, all along. Even when she was with me, she loved him. I suppose she loved me too, but she loved him more, much more than she would or could ever love me.
So I threw them into the fire. I threw the roses into the fire.
They were beautiful, but roses aren't things that get prettier over time.
Unless you preserve them, take care of them; nourish them.
They were a light pink, like her lips and cheek.
They were soft, like her skin.
They even smelled like her.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all.
If he hadn't come back, she would still be here, with me.
And the roses wouldn't be in the fire. They would still be blossoming. I had to burn them; I just had to. I had to get rid of them. They painfully reminded me too much of her, they reminded me of everything about her, and I couldn't, wouldn't take that.
I watch as the fire slowly consumes the roses.
The colors are magnificent: red, orange, and gold, yellow, pink...
I didn't know that roses had thorns. Or rather, I knew they had thorns, but I didn't know how sharp those thorns could be.
I didn't expect those thorns to prick me, even though in the back of my mind, I always knew there was that possibility, that chance, however small it was, the chance that the thorns would prick me, and I would bleed. I'm bleeding now.
The roses are gone now; there is only a small pile of ashes left. Black and gray ashes, so very different from the original roses. So very bleak, gloomy, but the scent of roses are still among the ashes, like a lingering presence. It will always be there, the aroma of her, the aroma of love, the aroma of happiness.
These ashes that sit here in front of me, in the hearth of my fireplace, are just a mere shadow of our once love. They aren't even a tiny part of what it was like, because ashes bear no resemblance to roses whatsoever, don't you think? And yet, the ashes still smells like roses, the ashes still have flecks of palest pink scattered among the black and gray. The ashes have reminders, too, of the love we once had. No, that's not right. I still love her, and I will always love her. So I still hold our love near to me, she doesn't, but I do.
The ashes are still warm.