Behind the façade is a fragile flower.

Its petals are dry, fading and brittle.

A tear trickles off one on the petals and if you listen very carefully, you can hear the sound of despair.

It leans sideways because it can no longer stand upright by itself.

It not longer can send water up its stem.

Where once was a beautiful perfume, now lingers a pungent smell that makes people want to wretch when walking by.

Why am I here, asks the flower?  Why have I been forgotten?  What did I do wrong, or what did I do right?

Don’t think of such things, because I am only a flower and a flower is only meant to look pretty; but I don’t look pretty anymore.

I don’t smell sweat anymore.

I don’t feel happy anymore.

Maybe it’s time to die.

Maybe it’s time to live.

Maybe it too late already.

As the little flower weeps quietly to itself, it reminisces about a past that never existed and future that will never occur.

One day someone will just rip it out of its pot and replace it without a thought.

Will it be today? Will it be tomorrow? Who knows?

All I do know is that this flower will be a distant memory and no one will ever remember the beautiful smell it once brought.