Through branches and veins intertwined, my blood runs, green and greedy, to feed the fluorescence above me. My whispering leaves are restlessly trying and crying and dying to reach down. The alley is the same, gray and somber, even if I bloomed. I am The Tree.

So hold me now, oblivious and distant,

And scratch my surface with the letter A

From angels, anguish, arms and aches

From anything and anyway…

As you walk by and the alley remains gray and somber, in the dusty wind I write my poetry. My favorite way to sing my blooming pain, in nuances of blue and yellow. A rain will start and then a storm will shatter me, but I’ll remain strong…

Descriptive passages seem to be my enemies. Especially when it comes to you, beloved wanderer, lover of steps and letters A scratched on my surface.

And…what if your soulmate is a tree?

And…what if I might be the one…