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I Am a Red, Red Rose

My love is like a red, red rose.

The rose wanted love. It wanted it, and needed it like it needed the sun. The park in New York where it resided was beautiful, yet boring, for it had been there its entire life. It needed a new scene, a new life picture. It felt itself getting closer and closer to happiness, as it watched the little girl, with her sad eyes and ragged clothes, admiring it every day.

The girl wanted a rose. She wanted it, and needed it like she needed a mother and father to take care of her. She didn't have those, either. Every day she walked to the park, not far from her small, abandoned apartment in New York, to admire the red, red rose that sat in its flower garden. People thought she wasn't normal, just sitting there, looking at a rose. She was afraid of picking it, because she considered it stealing. She felt herself getting closer and closer to happiness as she sat, admiring the amazing rose that she wanted so very badly.

One day, the wind stirred in the park. The rose swayed in the cold, but the girl was still there. It was something she did every day, part of her life that she wouldn't give up for a day. The park was almost empty. A jogger ran past the bench where the girl sat, the jogger holding her music player. The girl looked around, anxious to see if anyone was looking. Then she stood up, hesitated, and ran over only to trip over a rock and fall. She recuperated quickly and picked the rose. Her rose. She hugged it, careful not to ruin any of its delicate petals.

And the rose had love.

And the girl had a rose.




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