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The flowers died on Monday.
And I remember sitting there, holding back tears that I knew would stain my face and distort my vision.
I had hoped it wouldn’t have come to this, to me curling up next to you and wishing I could have done something differently. Wishing I could have been there.
The flowers wilted on Sunday.
That was when I first fully realized they were dying, too late for anything to change. Too late to go back and turn the eyes of fate away.
Hoping and praying it wasn’t real, that it was some kind of joke.
The flowers brightened on Saturday.
And it seemed, for a moment, the seasons were all in tune, and everything was okay. Everything was there, perfectly in tune; in time.
I placed the flowers down on Friday.
You always loved flowers, didn’t you?