They are the only ones who sadden me. I am the only one who loves them. Four withering roses with sharp thorns and satin petals that curl. Four who are sick, but still alive. Four sweet memories, wilting near my porch. From my window I can see them, but my lover does not return and knows not of my sadness.

Their story is sad. They suffer silently in the bush. They droop and they curl, and fill the air with their scent and leave me in a lovestruck daze. This is how they live.

Let one abandon the fight, they’d all falter like dominoes in a line, each petal floating to the ground. Live, live, live roses say when I cry. They love.

When I am too sad and too lonely to keep living, when I am a single soul in a crowded room, then it is I smell the roses. When my lover is away with another. Four who live despite suffering. Four who love and do not forget to love. Four whose only purpose is to be and be.