My mother whispers to me on nights such as these.
When the moon is dark and grim and the stars forget to shine and everything is unknown and still.
"The rose smiles at no one," she murmurs in my ear, soft hands folding back a lock of my hair, "and no one sees her smile. We gaze down at the rose but there is a blankness there, she gazes up at us but the rose cannot see, she cannot feel, she cannot be."