Twin Flame Pt. 2

I watched my plants die in the summer heat,

not knowing what else to do but water them.

The pale chartreuse of neglect has been haunting me.

When winter, with her icy fingers and gelid disinterest, arrives,

pallid green will turn a dusty death-brown. 

A lachrymose metaphor for a plethora of other bullshit, I suppose.

A lackluster attempt at communicating my inability to discern your desires.

A clumsy sexual offering turned mess of a social situation.

Your perception of me as wildly disrespectful leading to a desiccation of interest,

a drought induced dearth of desire.

Your laugh rings in the back of my mind occasionally,

but it is mingled with the sound of dead plants collecting in gutters,

the scent of irreversible seasons. 

I pray your winter is warmer than mine is forecast to be.