One day I’ll smile again, at least that’s what they tell me. But this torture, the never-ending pain, has made it impossible to feel anything, anything other than misery. So I’m lying here, calling out to you, roses in my hand. So please, tell me, when will I get better? When will the pain of losing you become bearable? I’m dying to know. Literally dying, as the pain wastes me away. I want to join you, to bring you these roses in my hand. Sitting alone, trying to find answers. Why did you give up? The doctors said you could get better, but you lost the will to live. I’ve lost the will to live too. I can’t live like this, staring at the ceiling, roses in my hand. These roses, your favorite flower, have been with me since the day you died. I went to give them to you, but you were already gone. I never got to say goodbye. So I stand here, roses in my hand. As dark red as your blood, these roses remind me of you. I remember that man, too. The man who drank too much. The man who drove straight into you. The man who took your life. I remember holding your bleeding, broken body. And you telling me that your blood, spilling over the pavement, was the same color as your favorite roses, the same as these roses in my hand. So here I am, back with you, staring at your name on a slab of rock. The thought of seeing you again, it makes me smile for the first time since you died. And I’ll give you these roses in my hand.