I opened the window expecting summer, but you were dressed in October, your leaves were frail and discolored, your eyes were sunk beneath the heavy foliage that is you and your limbs were thin and sharp… please don’t hurt me again. I walk towards you, you shake your dead leaves and they abandon you as their taste for hue blends not with the dead. You stand firm, your roots fingered into the mud; your nails fracturing into the rock, yet you feel no pain. Why? Yet you want me to come to you? I’ll come, but now is no time for forgivings. I don’t want to forgive you, not someone so wickedly painted. Who painted you? I sometimes think I was the unfortunate, or shall I say the luck?
“Come... Come to me… now!” I screamed to your deadness. I scream, and I holler at your tombstone, erected mockingly in those yellow fingernails encrusted in the mud you’ve buried yourself in, yet you still reach out of your grave, keeping your voice muffled in the dirt and your eyes blinded by the dark, when are you gonna see me?
The sharp ends of your leafless branches stab the sky above us yet… clouds don’t bleed red, but rain. The clouds immuring us have sunk below their intended path and have enclouded our eyes in a fog that can’t be carved by hands flushed in life. I want to kneel into the pikes of grass, impaled I’d be by you, but I want you to… as crazy as it sounds. Take me, take me now.