the rose was dark and wilted,
withered away with age.
the water was murky
   and looked like mud.
it clashed with her bright white coffee table.

the wilted rose was a deep burgundy,
compared to its once bright red counterpart.

a cool breeze from the open window swept through,
bringing a sway to the rose;
   a shell of what it once was.

the light from the window shone on it,
   showing all of its flaws and decay,
its rips, tears.

it smelled sweet, despite its looks.
as sweet as candy,
   but it looked like death.
the breeze carried the smell throughout the room,
a dead rose still alive.

streams of tears came from her eyes.
as she picked the last wilted rose petal,
   it reminded her of what the now wilted relationship
once was.