When Trees Whisper

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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

take life.

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:

your cheeks were hollowed in,

the thing between your fingers no longer light and cool.

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 lost their leaves to the cold

and didn’t scream while they fell,

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.