The tree.
It’s waving at
me.
Calling
me.
Begging
me
to come out. Run away from
Here. This prison, holding me back from my
                         deepest
                                                       ­                      longing.

I hate it Here.

I need to go. I need to run away from
Here.
Run to
Him.
That tree…
I dream of the other tree.
The tree under which we promised with our
lips;
Promised that
Someday,
we will have each other, without having to
  Hide.
                        Wait.
                    ­                     ....Run.
But maybe,
if we want,
we will run anyway.

The tree keeps waving at me.
*It hasn’t given up.

This building is so new, and yet there are already

spills on the ceiling.

How could something so pure, so full of potential, have

spills on the ceiling?

This baffles me.

If the people inside wanted to ruin the beauty and the goodness of this place, they would spill on the floor, the carpet, or even the walls but they would*  never

spill on the ceiling.

How could this happen?

We did nothing wrong!

These

spills on the ceiling

are staring me down, daring me to run, to give up.

But  I will stand my ground

because I know that

Someday,

these

spills on the ceiling

will come crashing down. And though it will hurt, there will finally be a way out, through the hole that appeared where the

spills on the ceiling

had been.

And we can run away, where the  spills  can never

hurt us

*again.