46. Houseplant

I am watering you enough,
I think.
But you keep dying -
your leaves are crispy
and golden,
falling to the
ground.

You are unhappy here.
I play you Bach,
but I don't think you like it.
People say
it will help you
grow.

Is it too much sun?

I rotate you,
by degrees
everyday,
hoping some slant of light
will eventually feed you right.

Do you think
I like watching you die?
I am suffering too:
you are,
day in, day out,
reminding me
of our failed relationship,
of our vernal hopes.
Houseplant,
please live.