My blurry eyes
Cannot focus.
Why do I get so
Panicked?
Small, heartbreaking
Moments turn uncomfortable
Into terror.
It puzzles me how
I can leave fresh flowers
For weeks, until they are
So brown and crispy
In a wine bottle disguised
As a vase.
Completely dead and
A foreshadow to now.
Each petal
A problem.
Each stem,
An apology.
Yet the thought of discarding them
Is unheard of.
Out of place upsets
The intricate balance that
We strive so hard to achieve yet
Consistently fail miserably at
Every time.
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