When Trees Whisper
You reminded me of the cold and
the way I needed to start again with a clean slate.
When we met it was like hearing all my ruminations
They began to walk next to me. They were alive.
The trees were starting to lose their leaves and those that
remained were left to rot, sifting through a palette
of colors with limited options:
decaying hope, empty desire, the color beneath my shoe after stepping
in an unsavory squish.
Then the leaves began to fall more rapidly, and
I found myself walking empty-minded down a grey pavement
surrounded by two rows of giant trees.
As I passed they told me not to worry
but the meaning behind their words ran blank
because their voice was yours in disguise,
reaching out to me in disrepair.
In them I saw you.
The trees were whispering and part of me knew this was not normal,
that you were not normal;
the extension to which you were connected to my mind
had to be severed, the way the trees lose their leaves to the cold
and don't scream while they fall,
an inevitable crunch underneath uncaring soles.
I walked a little faster and found the real you at the last patch of sidewalk,
We took pictures of the melting sky, unlimited in its choices.
I bundled my scarf closer to my neck as I watched you breathe in and out,
counting the seconds
before the leaves tumbled to the ground.