by stupendous man

With every second collecting dust,

A wilted rose breathes its final breath

The beauty dies, but the memory lives

The little thorn, waiting to pierce me

The scar on my fingers, to always tell me she was worth it

The fallen petals that still smells like her

The smell of the love that will soon be lost

The ashes remain where the heart once was

Because to bury it, would be to wait for another one to come.


Burnt bridges