The roses 

The night was the color of the roses sitting by my sink; the wilted dead ones. You sat across the table from me with anger painted on your face and I wasn’t sure why we were still holding on. It was silent. My fork scraped the plate as I shivered from the cold of the room. I looked down and shakily set my fork on the table. You couldn’t stand it anymore and you pushed your chair backwards and stood hastily. “I’m done.” You spoke and left without another word.

I couldn’t blame you for leaving me. After all, I wasn’t what you were looking for when we started. I was quiet and shy, but always looking for a story to write. You wanted someone by your side to adventure and wander the world, but I was always behind you. I was always waiting for you to become my story. You never did. You never let me see your weakness; you never let me into your head.

You weren’t the story I needed.

You were the hope of a story I wanted and never recieved.

I was not the adventure you craved.

I was the failed attempt at settling for less than what you truly wanted.


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