It’s difficult to look outside of my my-
-croscopic lens; it just feels like a job

to never have to consider who is
an actual person that should matter to

me. It’s an almost impossible trick,
that only me and most other adults

can forget how we felt growing into
a new body, how we forget ever knowing

We're just like everyone else who also thinks they
aren’t like everyone else because they didn’t have
someone to hold their heavy lovelorn child-hearts.

i am someone's story. in one person's tale, i am the girl who plays the role of the comic relief. the one who makes people laugh and smile, as well as providing humor. in one another person’s storyline, i am the main lead, bringing to life all of those desired characteristics. in another's eyes, i may be the wise sage who gives guidance at critical stages in their lives. however, when i stop to think about it, i find that i am the antagonist in someone else's plot. the bad guy, to be precise. and no matter how hard i try to change my ways, the reality is that i am who i am to them, and in certain situations, there is nothing i can do to change it. in their book of life, i am the arrogant evil villain.

but then you came. everything changed when you walked into my life out of nowhere. you appeared in my life like a shooting star and filled my heart with bliss. and i've never felt safer or vibrant than i do when i'm around you. not once in my life have i felt so alive. it seemed as if you were unveiling new layers of greatness to me with each passing moment. i've never seen that much gentleness in a lone soul before. in the shadows, you were gently carving out a space for yourself in my heart without me even realizing it.

you embraced my grief as if it were your own and showed me love as no one else ever could. everytime i felt like i was on the verge of falling, you stayed with me. when i was weak, you were my pillar of support. when i needed someone to weep on, you were there for me. because of your smile, i was able to make my existence on this planet worthwhile. for a long time, it seemed impossible to feel so connected to someone. however, it is quite simple to feel intertwined with you. i can't tell you how good it makes me feel. i've began to realize that i had no idea what it felt like to be truly loved until i met you.

Push and Pull.
Acting the fool.
Sick and tired.
Done with the bull...

Its time to be honest.
Haven't done that in the longest...
Its one of many, A failed promise.

We each had our role.
Both digging into that hole.
These things, chip away the mind and soul.

Gentleness sometimes gives way to resolve.

Kind words are a pleasure.
Given in truth an absolute treasure.
Although we don't always have it altogether.
Somehow we manage to storm the weather.

it's not horrid
it's not terrible
it's everything
it's you and her
it's the tears that pour
it's the people laughing
it's everyone clapping
for the joyous occasion
the white dress
the suit
and the girl in tears watching her life dissapear.

is the death so dearly wished,
final words upon your lips?
leave the world, fatal breaths,
cross thy heart and lay to rest?

the shining glimmer in your eyes,
blotted out: a cloudy sky.
the warmest hearth, stomped out cold,
the ****** of a soul of gold.

There is a tree behind my neighbor’s house that I can see from my yard.
The leaves are amber from autumn into early winter.
When it’s windy, they fly off in a flurry, the tree’s narrow trunk bowing under Mother Nature’s weight.

Weaker trees around it fall. The tree in question does not.

I watch in awe, every year, as the leaves yellow and brown and eventually fall from the tree’s boughs.
It’s a pity, sure, but I am content that for a few months, I get to watch them grow and evolve.

Today, the leaves’ golden hue peeks at me through a kitchen window.

The branches are leaning over, war-torn by days of storms, reaching toward the earth.
The distance between the leaves and the ground is ever-shrinking, a point approaching zero but never quite reaching it.

In a few months, the tree will be barren. Its fallen leaves will decompose.

They will never meet the new generations of leaves that come each spring.
They will never bear witness to the metamorphosis of their former home, to the growth and change it will undergo in the years to come.
They will never see their stronghold eventually splinter and collapse under the weight of Mother Nature’s force and fury,
becoming one with the earth toward which it was so desperately reaching.

I wonder what it's like to be the one left behind by change.

I’ve always believed it a privilege to be allowed close enough to witness another’s development,
To be along for the journey as they shift from one version of themself to the next.
But this, I realize, is a privilege that I cannot even afford myself.

There are pieces of me that will never see the changes next fall will bring my neighbor’s tree.
There are pieces of my neighbor’s tree that will never see the changes next fall will bring me.
Parts of me will die before other parts are born; it is a fact that simultaneously troubles and comforts me.

Perhaps you, Reader, will never meet the newest versions of me.
But then again, neither will I.