The trees grow for mile; beautiful and tall. They are a power of their own. We look to them for life, and we tear them down for sport. Yet my words will egg on to the page in perfect parallel lines, never to be confronted. Though they seem disconnected at first, the print will steal away all this work, as the foresters skin the trees and submit them to torture in order for my thoughts to live and breathe.
It’s cold now. The snow lays itself down, as it tucks us all in for our long winter’s sleep. Perhaps that’s why I feel tired all the time. I’m awake, but I really shouldn’t be. My body aches to sleep away this incessant time of year; to hibernate until my hair grows longer and the grass and roots begin to grow once more.
Then comes the blistering heat, and the next thing I know my body will be ignited with fire, and I will become unfeeling as all of my senses become lost. I will lose them as the fire toasts away my fingertips. It will be then that I ache for the cold I once feared as comfort.
Welcome to the twenty-first century, where we know what we do is wrong, but no one makes an effort to change. What good would anything else do us? We are all too busy suffocating on our own egos to see clearly any more.
Suddenly there are crunches of feet on snow, of cackling crows in trees — fear consumes me. I feel my sweat turn to ice as I stand barefoot in the snow. The vastness winds me; I know I cannot walk forever. Then, there is darkness.
* * *
I keep dreaming of this moment, yet never make anything of it. I never get far enough to know what is actually to happen. Why does it repeat itself to me if it has no purpose? What unfinished business has this forest left for me? Why me?
I awake in a sweat even though moments before I was freezing in the snow. The sheets are wet, and there is a pounding in my head. The clock’s light screams at me to go back to bed but my sheets have become treacherous moors that leave me feeling unwelcome.
I stand and wait for something to tell me what I should be doing. The clock blares numbers too early to read, and the darkness outside shows itself as a sign that the time for sleeping is unfinished. I change the sheets. I dress and prepare for the day. What else is there to do? I return to the bed. I can still see the outline of where my sleeping body rest peacefully moments ago, though now it only appears as a blurry shadow of the time before.
Though more comfortable now than before, the bed still does not welcome me. I sit on it, eliciting a loud long creak. This is when I think of you.
* * *
I miss you. It has not been long but when you are gone I find I need distractions to stop myself from willing you to be with me. You and your warmth make everything feel better. Things don’t taste as good when you aren’t around. When you leave, you must take my senses with you.
You ground me; you are the soil I have decided to plant my roots in — you have been helping me grow. You are rich with nutrients, beautiful, and your smell reminds me of home. You are my home.
I haven’t had a home since I was nine years old. I’ve forgotten what it felt like to always have a place to go. A place to be myself and to be loved no matter what. This I have found in you. I miss you.
Why is it that to you I don’t feel as cold as I do to myself? To you, I am the blistering sun; to me, I am an eternal glacier. I take up so much space and am deceiving on the surface. Please, help me melt myself down to a more palatable size — I am scared of all of this ice inside.
My heart was off-beat until you came along and made it skip. Now it beats only in time with yours; my heart belongs to you now. Promise me you won’t break it, because I haven’t quite figured out how to piece it back together.
I’m not obsessed I swear, this is all just poetic shit to tell you I love you.