You should have plucked me, tucked me to turn brittle between the crisp pages of your favorite book, a mausoleum of text. It would have been fitting. You could have run a thumb across me, remembered fondly.
You could have picked each petal, placed it on your tongue, tasted the pepper of day-lilies, and chewed, making me part of you at an atomic level. Unwittingly taking me everywhere you went.
Instead I will wilt wetly, slowly browning, becoming dirt. I bore no fruit, dropped no seeds to overwinter and emerge green next season. I live on in nothing and no one.