My plant is dying. Her long chlorophyll-filled leaves drooping, sagging, lacking.
The sun barely shines on her anymore as the shadows claim her in the corner of my windowsill. The only window in my tiny room and it receives the least amount of light due to the angles of the sun— an inhibitor of her vegetative maturation. As it is there’s hardly any daylight left to give.
Winter is drawing near, and I should learn to close my window so the cold can't creep in— but I open it anyway, afraid to let go of any residual summer that might still litter the increasingly frigid air. Where did the time go?
The cold doesn't agree with her, despite being a succulent—supposedly hard to ****— so I trim the broken, withered limbs, break them off so the plant can breathe again. The now bare stem looks lonely. So I water the dry dirt in hopes that she’ll grow once more.