a wilted flower

My petals, once vibrant crimson, now crumble at the edges,

a brittle brown creeping in like a forgotten autumn.

I used to unfurl, a sun-soaked dance toward your light,

but you've become a shadow, a silent silhouette.

The soil of my heart, once fertile with your laughter,

is parched and cracked, desperate for a single drop.

I remember the days your words were a gentle rain,

feeding my roots, encouraging me to bloom bolder.

Now, your silence is a drought, a desolate landscape

where my spirit withers, a slow and agonizing fade.

I reach, straining towards you, a wilting stem seeking solace,

but your gaze remains distant, fixed on some unknown horizon.

Each unacknowledged thought, each unmet need,

a petal falls, scattering pieces of me onto barren ground.

I long for the nourishment of conversation, of shared dreams,

the simple act of tending to the garden of our love.

But you offer only stillness, a quiet indifference

that suffocates the life within, a constant, dull ache.

Am I not worth watering? Am I not deserving

of the same care I so freely offer in return?

I fear soon there will be nothing left but a husk,

a memory of the vibrant bloom I once was,

a testament to the flower that died of neglect,

because the gardener forgot to see it needed rain.