Reflections

You began when you told me that you had to leave. We were too much of a twisted tree, sprung from two grasses and twined at the neck. We choked each other till our chlorophyll leaves fell from our arms.

So you began.

You’ve been transplanted and you re-sprouted your lovely roots exploring your new dark, rich soil. You’ve been trellised and been shot up on phosphorous, and now you’re strong with thick bark. I guess

I’m glad for you. 

Glad that you have birds flitting through your branches, that you are able to smile and flirt. I should be glad.

Should. But my heartwood aches, with cracks to the pith. 

It’s not so much you, you is an abstraction now, you can be the sense of love itself, it doesn’t have to be you, though it is you who I am addressing. And to the one I’m addressing, I don’t miss you. I miss the other you, the sense of belonging and joy, passion and growth towards the ideal light. While your leaves grew back with the spring, mine shriveled, my branches remain black etches on a grey sky. I want to find a passion again, a chance to leave the earth and fly or float down a river and 

scream with life.