Rotting buds and once bloomed petals. I push my thumb in. Urging for wetness. Yet met with a brittle sea of thirsty soil. I bring my nose towards the brown patches, inhaling deeply. Unafraid and yearning for a familiar smell. I pluck the tiny green leaves, put them in my pocket. My tongue glides the tip of my thumb. A familiar taste. I put the plant in a glass jar. I call it “us.” I leave it there. I walk away.
When Love Turns to Something Else.