By the time you read this, I'll be gone. Please don't try to come after me. You are, after all, rooted to the ground, and even if you did manage to uproot yourself and go running down the street, you'd probably just get mistaken for green waste and hauled off to the dump.
So don't risk it. It's not worth it. I'm not worth it.
I know it's hard for you to understand why I would leave now, just when things were going so well. I mean, look at you! You look great. You're just about to hit your peak. Any day now, you'll be bursting into bloom all at once, and it will be truly dazzling. Any gardener would be lucky to have you.
But here's the thing: Sometimes a woman needs a little city life. Half the time, when I'm out digging or deadheading with you, I'm thinking of somebody else. I'm dreaming of cocktails at the Algonquin, or the small crowded streets of the East Village, or art galleries in Soho. And that's not fair to you.
So, once again, I've gone off to Manhattan, just when things were so good between us. I don't expect you to forgive me, but I do hope that you can go on without me. I'll be back–I always come back– but I know you can't wait for me. Go ahead, do your thing without me. I'll be there later, after it's all over, to deadhead and pick up the pieces. But I can't be there now. I hope that someday you'll understand.
And really–don't blame yourself. There's nothing you could have done. It ain't you, baby–it's me.