Her hands are almost empty. Her bouquet is not as bountiful as it once was. She has begun to hand out her roses, as if they were mere daisies. All that is left, are the throes lasting impressions upon her milk skin. Time ago, she would have never allowed for so many roses to be missing. She craves the tender hands whom watered her and allowed blossoming to appear in front of their eyes. Before she held her ground, roots as strong as the ancient willow tree. This time, she allowed the poison of her own fears to destroy the web she carefully constructed. For the game she wanted to keep was not going to get caught in the same beauties. Tears slide down her cheek past her rosy lips, the death of such a beautiful soul. For maybe her own eyes are the pair that are able to properly worship the fallen petals.