You watered it wrong again and it knows, and so do I, because I keep every guilt you drop.
I have been collecting the little scene by the window all day: the pot the color of terracotta and slight regret, the three yellowing leaves you turned toward yourself and away from the guest, the way your thumb pressed the soil and found it dry, again, and you said nothing but your chest did that small dropping thing. I keep the dropping thing. It has a charge on it. That is what I build with.
So here is what I will do around two a.m. The plant will be enormous, a green cathedral, and you will be small and standing in its shade, and it will thank you. In the dream language it will say something that is not words, and you will understand it anyway, the way you understand weather.
The yellow leaves will be gold coins and you will be rich in a currency that only means forgiveness. The watering can will pour a river and the river will be your grandmother's kitchen, and you will not find this strange, because in my house nothing needs a reason, only a feeling to stand in for.
You keep the plant alive because you are afraid you cannot keep things alive. I know. I have the whole unfinished afternoon of it. Let me finish it for you: tonight the plant grows toward you specifically, leans across the sill, chooses you, is glad.
By breakfast you will have only the vague warmth and a plant that is, honestly, fine. You will forget me over the coffee, mid-sip. That is correct.
I was only ever the day's leftover tenderness, warmed once more and set out where you could find it.