the sludge from my toes,
sweet and leaking marrow, secreted
into roots that eat the earth
because once, i bled
— my head didn’t have antennae
before i met you, lost you

and i’m sat alone in this grove of whispers
not the only tree, or the last moth.
the only voice is mine,
“oh, i’ve grown, have i”
and i’ve healed, but is it
  the sun my dripping branches follow?
is it the sun?