the morning came in, thick as honey, studded with beestingers of shadows; the unlight from the trees' stagnant fingertips. last night i stood under the branch sky, and picked off twigs, still green inside. they tasted of fading things, like the peeling photographs of summer-skin on your wall. and you put two fingers and two thumbs together and found me in the middle and said you wish you had your camera. you called me picturesque. and i laughed and said, if that is what i'm like, why don't you tell me what i am.
they come quiet and leave with such a racket, boisterous and petulant, with loud pouting lips unapologetically kissing my feet as i run ahead of you. the leaves, they dance underneath me all across the ground as they were once in the sky. the trunks sway their heavy limbs to a symphony of winter.
you point to your naked wrist, twice, shake it like it's broken and point to it again, hold it up to your ear and snarl. it's not too late, i say, you have to wait for the flowers to bloom. so you tuck your warmth in around the edges of your skin and say you can wait forever. yes, i said. but maybe forever's not going to wait around for you, ever think about that, tough guy?