My rose

I look at the rose you gave me for my birthday,

Still fresh, red, beautiful.

The smell was light.

The red was pure.

The texture was soft.

Two days afterwards, the rose was not the same.

The red was purplish.

The smell was stronger.

The texture was a bit rougher.

I noticed then, that the rose looked even more beautiful than ever before.

As days passed, the rose turned into a new kind of beautiful.

Lying on my bed, I weighted the rose towards my face.

I had never feel such abundance by an object.

The endings of the petals were curved.

The center felt complete.

                A recently opened rose.

                A rose which was mature but not too mature.

                A rose that was starting to be at its peak.

                An open rose, but which still has a lot to open.

                It’s a rose which is considered not too young, but young enough.

I look at it.

I spin it around in my hands.

I analyze the curves, the profusion, the swirl.

It looks almost fake.

The perfection is remarkable.

                The rose looks bigger because of how open it is getting.

                One sees that it is a complete rose.

                It is extraordinary how much it is taking for it to fade.

                I decide to not think ahead, just enjoy my rose in the time being.

                And in this time being, this particular rose is an extremely beautiful one.