The trees rise from muddy earth to muddled sky, and become lovely. They kiss each drop of rain to forget their greenness. They grow inspired by the wind, as you inspire me. They leave luminious stories rotting in their earth, as I will leave you my stories. And as the earth takes their oranges, you take me. They know they belong to the earth, as I thank you. Their roots encircle each worm casing, each seed, dark and lonely, and they drink and drown and are thirsty again. Thirsty trees. Thirsty me.
I love you.
I hate you.
The oranges have rotten brown and fallen black. You've fallen quiet. The wind forgets to inspire. The earth forgets to be dark and lovely. You are not lovely anymore. We are not lovely anymore. Concrete pours itself into the crevices of roots and hands till I forget how they were ever interwoven. The trees rise from asphault earth to granite sky. And they lose their innocence, forget their greenness in the gray. I have forgotten my innocence, and I wish to remember, but it’s too late.

Labels: By Ana