Love does not die overnight, or in a few days. Love dies like a flower that has been thrust up between cracks in cement, straining to reach the sun, thirsting for water, hoping it's lovliness will be noticed knowing full well that it won't dance in the sun, its thirst will never be sated, and no one will ever see its beauty. Then, finally one day, after a very long struggle, filled with hope, for what else is there in life but hope? The flower, and all its glory, resigns itself and gives up the fight; it knows the struggle to stand proud and in the sun was all for naught. It bows its head and the leaves which once wrapped itself for protection and comfort, let go and the flower stands alone. The flower starts drooping, as it makes its journey back toward where it came, just another hope that was a crack in cement that grew by chance, struggled against all odds to grow, blossom and stand proudly in the sun. I wish hate would come. It would make me stronger.