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The Rose

I hung a rose from my window
And watched it dry as water
Dipped down its petals in cool streaks
Until the drops were carried away

I reached out to touch it
It crinkled beneath my hand
A single petal fell to the ground
Floating down like a whisper

I tried to preserve its beauty
Still it broke beneath my touch
I held it with a gentle hand
But gentle was not gentle enough

I brought the bud to my inquisitive nose
There was no scent but that of
Dried out, dying words
Mumbled out of existential fear

Carefully, I avoid touching the leaves
I do not wish to harm it again
But still, it is broken





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