He tried, but he couldn't stand it anymore. He dropped to his knees on the damp ground in front of that headstone with painfully engraved words. The others, their friends, in mourning, watched the horrible scene from a few meters away. Normally he would have hidden his emotions, normally he would have contained the crying, but nothing mattered to him anymore. Loosely sitting on the ground, he clutched a rose red as the blood in his hands, gripping it tightly, its thorns dug into his skin, but he didn't feel the pain, nor the cold of that winter night, because the pain of a deeper wound misted his senses. Cursing his murderer, who was the time, and his torture, which was the loneliness, a single tear fell on a petal like a dewdrop, a tear of feelings, a tear of pain, a tear of memories. That rose was all he had left, of what once was his entire life, a simple flower, and a handful of blurred memories, both so beautiful, so sweet, so fragile, so dark, so bitter, so sharp, but, as soon as him, they will become dust.
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// I felt like drawing it so I leave the picture here, hope you like it. (I've drawn Spock, but I've written the drabble so you can imagine it with either of them)
