All about my flower

I had a red flower,
living in a pot
on a window lid,
of my small room
in Berlin.

I named him Fitz.

It only bloomed once.
When I watched Almodovar.

And then I fell again,
Into being blue
And anxious
And indifferent.

I sang at nights
And slept all day.

And as my sadness deepened
My flower started to grow small
And yellow.
It lost its wings
And its leaves.
It absorbed my worries
And my dark dreams.

One day
When it was cold
And windy outside,
Colin died of my sadness.
It turned grey quicker
Than a day turned black.

He relieved me of grief
And self doubt,
Sorrow of uncertainty,
And pity for loneliness.

And as he freed me of myself
I embraced consistency.

It bought me a moment of relief
And a breath.