Not because of the roots that show on the tops of your hands.
But because of the way I can never understand you.
Sometimes, I think I do. Sometimes I feel that I've laid my path of bread down behind me. Sometimes I think I know the way out. But then the birds of your being devour my pathway.
They come and they go and they leave me all alone.
Lost.
And then I'm stuck. I don't know where I am. All alone.
But then I remember. I am lost in the forest of you, and you can't help, because trees can't talk, to me.
And that's the thing. You've never really spoken to me about anything.
I remember once you told me that you wanted to cut your roots and leave.
That you weren't needed here.
That you wouldn't be remembered.
I told you that was a lie to befit Tony Abbott. You didn't believe me.
Do you believe me now?
Do you believe me when I say that your being here has planted seeds in my heart on soil I thought was barren? Do you believe me when I say that the way you make -feel- has sprouted blossoms in the corners of my mind where the sun has never shone? Do you believe me when I say that your absence would start the logging of my soul, cutting down what I thought was impenetrable?
You're stubborn. You're confusing. But you're solid. You don't let anything through your walls. And that's why you've always reminded me of a forest.
this one, my friends, was inspired by one of the most confusing, stubborn and wonderful people that I have ever met