Houseplant,
why are you depressed?
Most people- er, plants-
don't get Seasonal Affective Disorder
in Spring.
Houseplant,
I've watched your tumultuous stretch
and subsequent shrink
but I don't think
you truly want to decay.
I've watched teardrops roll
from your heavy leaves,
depositing life to the tile floor
in the part of the kitchen
best suited for afternoon light.
I'm begging you,
Houseplant,
there aren't many religions that
give an afterlife to plants.
This is your best shot, houseplant.
I promise I won't let the cat
push you off the counter again,
not like last time when the soil
spread out on the floor,
a puddle of
rock right there,
with earthworms that chewed through it all
and seeds that rooted in the
somewhat blobbish flower tiles
my ex-boyfriend insisted on.
Really, houseplant,
I'm the one with the pink slip,
and I can't survive on
light, you know,
not like you,
and I need more than rain
to stay rooted.
You don't need a roof over you,
Houseplant,
in fact,
you just need the earth,
I need a lot more than you,
Houseplant,
but if you can't keep it together,

how can I?