You are in each breath
I wistfully see off
slowly condensed
into a tormented runoff
that flows to the next host crop.
An innocent, hopeful bystander
whom it will surely ravage too.
As the roses wilt,
and the sun sets,
I pray the crop finds in itself
what made it glow to the parasite,
before its dew-adorned petals
withered and collapsed.
The foreign breath
over which I obsessed
becomes the subject
of the strongest condolence
in the face of reflection.