It was supposed to love the bathroom steam

It was supposed to love the bathroom steam

and the light that filters through the frosted pane.

But it’s turning into a yellow, sickly dream

of too much care and far too much of rain.

I touched a leaf and felt it slide away,

a wet paper scrap against my skin.

The roots are drowning in the dark of clay

where the rot has finally invited itself in.

The plastic pot sits in a stagnant ring,

a puddle of the help I tried to give.

It’s a heavy and a very quiet thing

to kill the very thing you wanted to let live.