The petals of the once-red rose are now a muddy brown, bleached of all their colour by the years of being pressed in my heavy English-to-English dictionary. They crumble the instant I try to take them in my hands.
I smell what is left of them, one last time – but they now have nothing to offer.
I hold out my palms to the cold December wind, and it gladly takes the remains, the burden of memories, off me. The crumbs scatter here and there, and soon, I can see them no more.
The last bits of you are gone. I am free once more. I hold on no longer.