He was a rose in full bloom. Perfect in every way. I must have painted a thousand roses in my career. Roses of every shape and size and colour – and yet none of them possessed a tenth of the beauty of Dorian Gray – not even all together.
But roses are beautiful because they do not last, so we must cherish them whilst they do. Dorian did last – miraculously so. As my hair began to grey and signs of aging stained my face – Dorian lasted. Well, his face lasted. But the Dorian I once knew and loved and still, still prayed would one day return, crumbled into nothing.
Because I forgot the most important thing – roses have thorns. But I didn’t see them, perhaps I refused to see them; even when I got too close and bled. And as I slipped from this world to the next, and Dorian’s face hazed into black, I thought: there was no lovelier final sight.
– Heather Caldwell
[11/2/17: Thorn, Crumble, “Yet the roses are no less lovely for all that”]