From the flower’s point of view, after Robert Frost’s poem Wind and Window Flower

I sat by the window every night waiting for
you to blow through, since you never stay
long I’m desperate for even a glance.
You would pause at my window and leave
behind tendrils of ice from your frosty kisses. I
wanted so bad to reach out, to feel the chilling
sting of you on my skin. But then you started to
breeze past without stopping to rattle the glass in
its frame, no longer caring to try to reach me. Or
maybe the currents that guide you claimed it was
time to move further on without me. “She’s only a
flower,” it urges you on, “She cannot fly with you.”
But I still sit up at night waiting,
I’ve even broken my window
so that if you do come for me,
I can feel you wash over me completely,
to cool my hot blood and make me yours.
But are winds capable of blowing backwards?
Should I shout one final goodbye and
hope you at least keep me in your memories?