trees

who am I when the golden sun no longer cranes its neck to look down on me?

when the stars stop listening

and the trees tear away from their roots,

falling with a type of slow and heavy ferociousness only seen when a fat man parachutes

bringing down bank buildings and coffee shops with every dragging branch

who am I when the wind stops brushing my skin?

when the air sits still,

and all that can be heard is the pumping of blood throughout my veins

my heart screams for recognition

with every pump of blood in my chambers, the desire for more in this life exacerbates

I'm crumpling my homework sheet

It's an aching

I am the tree and the tree is me.