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.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 12:04 PM UTC
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 10:10 AM UTC
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.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 10:54 PM UTC