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She thought that if only she could hide from her mind that it would be okay, that nothing would change. That perhaps the tides would shift away from her feet and the sand untie her down. Perhaps there is nothing to be done, but at what point is nothing too much to be undone? Has she done too much? Has she done nothing at all?
Petals fall from rooftops in the spring, a tree growing from mud over a tiny wood cabin. Pink fingers suspended momentarily in the air before her light warm skin touches mine and I dissolve before her outstretched hand. Fingertips on cheeks, on hips, on thighs, on skin, on skin, on skin. Light on thick, on soft, on heavy. I know not why she falls here, nor if she chooses to land in my arms. I know not why she touches me like she does, her warmth igniting small fires beneath leather. I know not why her honeysuckle gaze lands on sunken eyes that hold galaxies in their tears and longing in their sights. Perhaps she wishes to fix me; perhaps she doesn’t even want to try.
Oh, but do cracked and crying souls wish to be easy to love.
Oh, but do wishes grow from trees like my love for you does.
Perhaps she knows not what I am, only that I am all I am, that I am all there is. I wish I could know if she knew, for then I’d know what to do. But for now, I know not why she does what she does to me, nor who she wants me to be. I know not what the vines in her hair tell of stories nor why her eyes smile at mine as though the moon doesn’t merely reflect her own glow. All I know is that I am too heavy for her light gentle eyes, her pink dainty fingers, her strawberry freckles. All I know is the warmth of her lips and the bubbles of her laughter, the music in her feet and records in her ears, the way her held tilts to her smile and her arms fall too long at her sides and her legs bounce in delight and her teeth share her freedom and her hands bear her pain and how she only ever runs if it’s in the rain and how she always sneezes when she eats jam and how she points out every butterfly for miles and all the ways that she’s a child and I am weak for her soft smile and laughing eyes and charitable lips. All I know is that I love her, and for her to do the same is like a desert in the rain and I’m crying,
I’m crying,
I’m crying.
And the rain stops.
And the sky darkens.
And then she is lost.
Petals fall from rooftops in the spring, a tree growing from mud over a tiny wood cabin, but mud hardens to stone in the winter, wood cabins light fireplaces to keep warm, and the blossoms hide away from the cold.