Last night, I told an old fir tree of you. The violet-blue of the night sky mocked me as I spilled my heart onto the dewy ground. I was met only with the lazy crickets’ chirp as I concluded my confession with ferocity. I couldn’t have expected them to understand. Sometimes, to me your palms look unfamiliar, something I have always feared but reluctantly forseen. I’m not one for superstition but I’ve smashed enough mirrors and spilled enough salt to know the consequences all too well. I spend each moment telling anyone that will listen about the imprint you’ve left on everything I’ll ever feel again. Not even my skin could breathe without you. And while it seems I’ve made you out to be a noose around my neck, none could ever say I spoke poorly of you.