Your love was a fire you lit only sometimes,
leaving me otherwise of its warmth deprived.
The emotional heaving of my chest
for the pain you caused me was best
expressed in the dark of night,
where you couldn't see my inner fight.

Your love was not just a stab to my chest
but a slow twist of the knife.
I was left to mend myself alone,
then perform as though I was brand new
every time.

The flowers keep wilting,
For they know that you’ve gone.
They sing out their lonely, heartbroken song.

They long for your touch,
Attention,
And care,
Breathing your water,
They thirst for your air.

They live out the days,
In their milky white vase,
Murky water subsiding,
Reflecting your face.