The leftover roses whispered bloom to bloom, held thorns, then leapt from the flower shop window.
The escaped roses drank in the night sky, breathed real air, rubbed buds against dandelion fluff, smiled as tired petals fluttered to the ground, rejoiced in dewy grass.
Remembered the sweet taste that came from stretching roots into rich, loamy soil, rediscovered life outside.
What does being a leftover rose on Valentine’s Night matter–when you can dance barefoot in dewy morning grass, gaze at the mountains, dream into the clouds?
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