A week or two later,
you had a surprise for me.
No, I’ll have to wait.
That day you sauntered through the door, an anxious look upon your face, one hand tagging behind you.
You sat beside me, our friends all around;
and offered me a flower.
It was a beautiful rose, a crimson rose,
My rose.
I took it home, trimmed the deceased end,
rummaged through the clutter on my bedroom floor, found a bottle, and filled it with water.
As it drank the water, quenching its thirst;
it seemed to come alive.
Time went by,
and it slowly started to fade.
Before all the life was drained,
I placed it between wax paper,
Went into my room, found my favorite book, and positioned it between the musty pages.
Shutting the book,
I walked away.

Six months later;
I went to my bookshelf, grabbed the book.
That book with the torn cover, and tabbed pages from being overused; over read.
I flipped through the pages, looking for that crimson red,
I turned to the rose.
That rose you gave me so long ago.
It was;
Withered,
Wilted,
Dead.
And although it had no life left in it,
it was still just as beautiful as the day you gave it to me.

Even with time, it was still just as special, just as wonderful.
Just like us.