I'm dipping my paint brushes in my flower's water hoping the natural beauty will leak onto the canvas in the form of your wilting lashes and withering affection
because as tortuous as it is for me to watch the slow growth of your apathy, watching the spread of stems, sunflowers and red little buds that I'm not sure the name of, sitting in a mason jar on my coffee table, somehow manages to  romanticize it enough for me to look at the roots being planted and see the leaves come autumn. If only I could use these tiny tips accurately to articulate how I feel in detail, so that I didn't have to use this tiny voice who always uses the wrong tone to convey how I feel to you. Maybe then you could read the painting instead of my face to know that I'm decaying too.

But perhaps I'm not the flower, I'm the vase that holds it.
Or the "not-quite-a-vase-but-it's-the-only-thing-I-could find" that holds on to you.