Through a Lens

A flower wilted on his palm as the sun heated its fragile form with it's futile enterprise.  Having been forceably removed from its stem it could not not flourish and instead tried to drink the useless light.  It was a mirage of what it once was and the sun taunted, and the sun mocked.  The flower was there turning its colors to a faded shade like a poorly mentioned memory.  It was carried delicately from its home, across the yard like a specter on a gurney.  It struggled, reaching out a leaf on its stem in a minute fashion so that it could barely be said to have moved at all.  It was gasping and dying until it no longer gasped and was dead.  The lifeless flower was handed to his lover and she adored it upon her kitchen table between her place mats and her napkin holder til its pedals slipped away and its colors turned brown.  When finally it disgusted her and she removed it as broken dust to deposit atop the garbage can.  The flowers life was cut off short.  Its greatest gift, was its curse and that is that it was allowed to bloom.