The pot plant on my bookshelf has been dead a long time.
I wish it had lived longer. Before I went home for Christmas
I could’ve whispered to it reasons to stay alive: love, starry nights,
blue sky green grass summer days, fresh flowers, art, the spectrum
of possible emotions, weathers, experiences, all the things that can
be done for the first time, all the new sensations of the past four
months, drinking with close friends, sex, gigs, food, music,
the crackly sound of old vinyl, foreign films, poetry that explains
exactly how you feel, passion from yourself or anyone else,
kisses that make you feel so happy and alive,
songs that make you feel so happy and alive,
looking out over the city – your jewellery box –and
watching all the lights, all the lives and no one, no one knows
what will happen to anyone besides the forlorn rags of growing
old. So, I wish the pot plant had lived a little longer.
That’s all there is to it really. Just live a little longer. Live past
the days of crying and bleeding on the bedroom floor because
on other days you’ll be dancing and you’ll be so happy.
Of course, pot plants, however, cannot dance.