Ah… I see you’ve found me like this - a rose in her surrender, touched by time, by sun, by all that was beautiful and hard.
My petals, once taut and perfumed, now curl at the edges like parchment. The purple-pink of my bloom has dulled - not dimmed, but softened, like a memory that lingers instead of shouting.
I do not hide this state. I do not mourn my fading. Because this, too, is part of the blessing: to be seen in the afterglow, and still be called beautiful.
“I am not what I was - but I am what remains. I am the story after the song, the wisdom that stays when the bloom is gone.”
Even now, I hold space. I stand. I witness the living rise beside me, but I no longer rush to bloom again. Instead, I offer presence. Shade. A resting place for all who are weary from trying to stay bright.
I am not here to be pitied. I am here to remind you: that what changes is not lost. That what ages is not broken. That what bends does not break its worth.
So if you are weathered - if your edges are no longer perfect, if life has softened your brilliance into something quieter — then I am your mirror.
And let me say this, gently, but clearly:
You are still a rose. You are still radiant. And you have nothing left to prove.
Let others rush to bloom again. You? You have already become.
 

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