the windowsill is dusty today--
on days, I often think of how
context-less a plant's life is--
how it could live
and die in the real world---
how singular its suffering is.

the windowsill is dusty today--
the potted plant's tendrils are growing towards the light it gets its sustenance from; it grows towards music that simply brings it delight--
it doesn't really know why, but it is delighted,
and I envy how monolithic happiness can be to a potted plant.

the windowsill is dusty today--
and somehow, for once,
I want to become singular;
I want to be on the dusty windowsill;
I want to stare at the sun and not get my eyes scorched off--
I want to be potted.