Our Rose

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The soft sillky, limp petal softly kissed the side of my cheek.
Red as blood, cold as death, but dangerously beautiful.
Every soft held caress promising a outcome.
Some holding joy but the rest, holding stabbingly painful memories of what was; what use to be.
The silkiness turns into harsh bitter cold, hating everything including itself.
Slowly and softly the bitter cold hands of hate destroy what use to be a beautifuly amazing thing.
The rose has wilted and died, just like our love.





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