slow art of decay

I was given a rose for valentine's day. typical. It is still in a vase on my nightstand. atypical.

The first thirty-six hours of my possession went well. Said rose was red. Said rose was sweet-smelling. Kind (albeit temporary) pleasures of my dismembered rose bush member. Decay was always inevitable.

Petals still intact. Wrinkled now, submissive. Stem half black half green, have resigned half mulish. I could throw rose away, but let's not rush this.