there’s a place where the trees collide as if they
are making love and the hush of the leaves overlapping
is like a whisper of,
branches and plants and limbs and bodies.
maple and palm and sandalwood
and fresh air.

the roots messily fall along edges and depths
of soil
and i just want a love like that

natural like nature
quiet yet passionate
messy and thoughtful

the kind of love that is clear like a waterfall
like laughter and fish nipping at your toes
peace, sunbaths, the chirp of the birds
at the sunset bay,
where the moon tucks in daylight/

it’s like in this place,
there’s a hyperawareness of bruises
and there’s a gentle caress of the wind.
and the way your lips part at a near death or when
a song is on the tip of your clicking tongue
is lacking
numbness.

unwavering sentience
an empath spinning in a hurricane.

the best lover to is the one
that feels like home
when you
are homeless.

and i know, for
the trees tell me so.

Some would say the lush green forest on the mountainside is perfect
But I know almost every forest
Lush or grey
Is plagued with disease
Whether it is the tiniest of parasites
Or the most destructive of predators.

pronounced now in
their diminishing magic,

over the populous, rash,
self-destructive, tragic,

refuge for the scatter-hearted,
giant cover for the romantic,

trees for memories, smiles,
journeys, and paths nomadic

You remind me of Chai tea.

You're warm, and sweet, and you make me want to curl up with you on a rainy day, tangled in bedsheets and watching the rain pitter patter on the window, in my pajamas and my hair piled up atop my head, listening to soft music that speak of lazy love and croon of kisses.

You make me think of tan sweaters and unrecognizable spices, alluding to all the mystery I don't know and want to know, devouring you like I would a good book on a crisp autumn day. You make me want to take a road trip to a forest where the fog comes meandering in, and I sit in the backseat, talking about life-to me, to you, or my non-metaphorical, quite literal, tea.

You make me want to slow down, and sit in a coffee shop and work on a book, or admire the chipped mug that you came in.

You remind me of Chai tea, and all that we could be.

Unmoved by your arrival from the west coast,
ten thousand little things are different.

It’s October and the trees are on fire:
a forge that you won't notice, 'til you're gold.

Your Kicks don’t leave footprints on these cobbled streets;
even the children have old, leathery hands.

Try to paddle-board the Eno and the bass go belly-up:
that river’s for scattering ashes and making moonshine.

All they sell at Aldi is ethnic shampoo,
so now your hair twists like the roots you’ve lacked

'til now, because all you’ll ever need is two hands:
for prayer, and work.

Life moves on like a cigarette’s drag,
while somewhere Hope’s fiddle strums;

Take off your headphones and
go put your ear to an oak.