The Fragrance of What Was Lost

If roses could smell like anything else, perhaps that would be a smell of stale memories, pressed between blotted pages, holding the imprints of a slowly decaying tale, and changing reflection of yourself. If roses would smell anything but themselves, they would smell that one part of yourself you left behind but never bothered to find again. They’d breathe with the weight of forgotten words, like whispers lost to the corners of rooms, where secrets fold under dust and shadows. They’d carry the ache of quiet goodbyes, the gentle decay of time slipping by, filling the air with bittersweet echoes of all the dreams that faded into dusk. If roses could smell like anything else, they’d be the perfume of moments missed, a fragrance lingering just out of reach, like a memory waiting in the wings, forever there but never seen again.