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Rose sitting on the table,
slowly wilts and dies.
I know it won't last forever,
but I want it to.
Its smell is so intoxicating,
so sweet at first.
But I quickly get used to it, and
stop noticing.
The color so vibrantly red, both
beckoning and warning.
But it slowly turns brown, and
becomes worn.
No matter how much I water it,
how much love I give.
It continues to wither and die,
leaving me alone.
But, oh, for those first few days,
all I could see,
all I could smell,
all I could think of,
was that rose.
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