The Rose

A wilting blossom rests on the ground, surrounded by petals so desperately plucked off not empty stems by a young girl in love. He loves me, he loves me not... She had used up the entire bouquet, finally throwing down the last flower as each before it confirmed: he loves me not. She had squeezed the roses so tightly that the barbed thorns, had dug into her skin. Small droplets of blood, the same color as the rose, appeared and clung to the sharp thorns. The girl ran, crying, ignoring the pain of injury for the pain of a broken heart.

The flower lays on the ground, slowly dying, its petals wrinkling and turning the color of age. Once scarlet, the edges of the rose are first to turn brown and, like a falling tower, the rest quickly follows suit. Ignored and forgotten, the flower seems destined to turn to ash, shrinking into the ground with the petals of the others. Until a young boy, poor and dressed in rags, yet smiling all the same, comes along and sees the vibrant red rose, the wilted, yellowing, dying, forgotten rose. He picks it up, the grin on his face the smile of someone in love. And now the rose has purpose again, in the hands of a grinning young man, soon to be given to the girl he loves.

He loves me, he loves me not... He loves me.