A rose laying on the ground.
Soon dead, soon withered.
Waiting for someone to come and bring it back to life.
Waiting for that thing which cannot exist.
Waiting for the snow to melt and it’s roots to take hold.
Dreaming about being handed to the woman it was meant for.
Hoping for a day that will never come.
For by the time the snow is gone and the sun shines once more the rose will be dead, and its petals will be dirt.
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Categories: flash fiction