My memory, like the rose from a lover long last, has faded away leaving me here with the bitter sharp ended thorn to deal with. As I reach down to pick up what little bit is left I see some strange sence of hope that just as this rose has died me memory of you will too. All those bitter worded fights we had, the heartlessness that was spat to one another in bitter spurts of range. It puzzles me that the only thing that is left of you is the bitter memories and none of the sweet ones. All I can remember of you is the thorn, none of the bud. Did we ever bud into some sort of friendship or has it always been a thorn; a bitter, blood thirsty thorn.