I got a rose today. It was red. Very red. The deepest darkest shade of red. It was the most beautiful rose I had ever got. And I blushed, equally red. But... It has withered. It is no longer red.
Even though it is not red anymore, it is still beautiful. Still loved. Still cherished.
If I could I paint it red again, I would. But I dont have the paint brush or the colour.
If only I could make it red again. Because it was a precious redness...
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