Each morning you water the fake plants
like rain might forget the difference
between plastic and petals.

I suppose that’s what you do.
Darling, it’s all you’ve ever known.

Pouring into soil that can’t hold it.
And as the droplets slide off the leaves,
how could you not notice the futility?

There’s a certain ease in your habits,
though shallow they may be.
Disillusioned? Heavily.
But how could you bring yourself
to acknowledge they’re not real?
For if you do that,
you’ll have to confront what’s stopped growing.

So, you go back to what’s broken, comfortable.
Keep nurturing because it feels right.
Keep up the ceremonial watering, darling.
Water it more.

Though you should know,
you haven’t stopped loving,
you’ve just run out of real things to love.