You were so beautiful, standing tall, full of colour. Your sweet fragrance filled my small room and you lit it up with colour. But you were not to last. Two weeks you would last, maybe more, if lucky. But even though I knew it would not last, I took your beauty for granted. I barely noticed you dying a little day by day. Then one day I looked, and suddenly you were dead. No more bright and full of life, but dead and musty. How could I not have noticed? Then I realised. Still, some colour remained. You were shedding in places, making a mess, and you were limp and some of you turned brittle. What once stood tall, now faced the ground, defeated. You lived so long and struggled to stay living, but really you were dead long before the struggle began. It was only a little care that delayed the process so long. Maybe it would have been better to let you go gracefully than prolong the agony you felt in death. You struggled to breathe, to think, to feel. And yet, in death, you remained so beautiful. But in your death came a new white life, like cotton wool, growing. And I knew, that even though I still fell for your beauty, you had to go. I could cling on no longer. Death can come and pass, yet beauty lingers on.