Slow motion,
Each second a lifetime.
That's how it was,
Before you left.
Each hour a day,
Each day a week,
Each minute an eternity.
Then it ended.
You left.
The rose stood wilted.
But for some reason,
I kept the petals.
No more shall they smell as sweet,
No more shall their color brighten a day.
Wilted and dead they stand,
As does your love for me.
But for some reason,
After the flower ahs beedn torn apart,
I hold onto the petals,
For fear if no one did,
They woudl truly,
Begin to rot.
