Even when you look at me
Do you see me
Or do you see only
The years and years of your own idealism
Projected upon my being now.

Wood takes years to sink
As sap turns slow to stone over time
Unknown highs
The kind which are not easier seen
But are known to the sky as common sights
Be it high or low expectations abound

It is harder still than all of these trees
More fermented than
To love someone for who they are
And not what you think of them
Or what you expect them to do
(For someone else the likes you)