I knew you were about to leave.
I knew about the rose you plucked in the garden
that caused your fingers to bleed
You told me you'd be gone for a while
so you could take away the thorns
and no holes would be seen in your hand
once you tried to reach the forest
that was resting on mine.
But I've heard that before.
I've heard farewells
disguised as something beautiful,
something rare.
I knew about the songs that fell silent
when it heard the other one stopped listening.
I knew about the doors that opened
and then got slammed
by the hands it let in.
As you have said, I've had forest on my hand,
but what I heard was the fire you tried to soak me in.
I never told you about the rain that also burned inside me.
You will not be my destruction.