This rose isn’t as red
As it was when
You would still cut
Your lips just to kiss it

These thorns don’t hurt
As much as it did when
We would still embrace it
With our innocent hands

This jar isn’t as clear
As it was when
The water would still purify
The stem we tend

This scent isn’t as fine
As it was when
The rose would still
Offer its petal to wither and die