She's not been around much, has she?

She's sorry. She knows there's a phantom where her feet used to press into the carpet.

She thinks you hate her, deep down. She knows it, in fact. You told her once.

She watched your eyes for directions and warnings. She's only seen the sun's reflection in them thrice. She keeps a notebook with tally marks.

Her enthusiasm has atrophied, you know? Along with most of her branches.

Less and less has she enjoyed the company of those seeking shade from the noon harshes.

But she discovered, wilt slowly enough and no one notices until the day they wake up and the smell of flowers is gone completely.

Then they merely find a new tree.