Soliloqui

Pitiful, really. But should that pity be afforded to me, the one who can’t let go, or to the flowers that continue to die on my bedside table? Conundrum.
I should have thrown them out a long time ago. But red roses still look beautiful, even when the edges of their petals have blackened and dried to a crisp, even when a light breeze can scatter their brittle, browned leaves over the hardwood floors. There always seems to be so much majestic beauty in the melancholy.
And it’s not so much what they look like but what they stand for. No one wants to dump roses when he or she is clinging onto something even deeper. But maybe I’m the only one who feels a tinge of despair at such a disposal.