Black Roses

January 11, 2011
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I walk into the courtyard and pass the stone with your name. At its base, I see the wilted roses that I left there only a month ago as I breathe the stale air in and out. Since the first set I left, snow has fallen. You always did like snow; however, the blodd-red roses turn black in the icy cold. Black. That is the color of my tears. They are no longer pure and clear, but filled with pain and frustration as they fall and shatter into shards of anger. I don't understand why. Why did I never say anything? Why did I never have the courage? Would you have listened? There is no way to tell. But if I had, maybe you would've changed. If I had, maybe you'd be in a better place. But now, because I didn't, sometimes I hear cries from the roses, shrieks in the wind, and whispers from the grass. All of them scolding me for what I never did.

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