9 Years
There's a rose wilting in my window.
Everyday,
I come home
And look at that rose.
That rose—wilting.
Wilting away,
Along with everything I've worked for.
9 years.
One half of a life.
Devoted towards a single cause.
A cause that will never be met.
Because 16 months.
It only took 16 months.
But what is 16 months,
To 9 years?
To 18 years?
For me,
It was the end.
And that end is a rose.
An object of beauty and wonder,
Slowly transforming,
Into something hideous.
What I'd give up,
Just to be that rose.
Again.
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