It’s been two weeks since you last said you loved me and I know you didn’t mean it. You don’t know the parts of me that I’m trying to forget. The petals on the flowers you gave me, fall every minute and I think it’s their way of saying that everything that’s beautiful dies prematurely. And most of the time it’s our fault, because we want to preserve it so badly. It’s our fault because we assume it’ll live without nutrients. It’s our fault because we assume it’ll float and not sink or drown.
You should’ve bought me a plant