Exhausted, I lay against our old oak.

Drinking the orange juice you left me.

It’s sweet, sour, soothing against

My raw throat.

The day is low, and night

Creeps up my back.

I’m not ready to leave yet.


The bark digs into my spine,

The memories within

Seek my heart.

Searching for a seed

We planted, fostered,

But left unflourished.


I’m not a singer

A dancer or an athlete,

Nothing about my body – my lips

Feet or arms – is nimble,

But I can tell you

This orange drink tastes dark.

The foam rolls across the top like

Tectonic tears, barely holding up against

Years rolling across their face,

Nearly bursting as soon as they appear.


This cup is like lead. It sat

In my fridge until my heart

Grew hard enough, cold enough,

And rough enough,

Until my skin was coarse with pain

And layered with six months

Of regret.

Perhaps if you were here,


If you were this tree,

We’d be similar enough

To meld together, and watch

This regretful world together again.

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