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.