We found ourselves here,
amongst land scarred right down the middle.
We filled in the holes with dead things,
leaves and grass, and shavings of a tree’s past–
giving back to the earth what time had already taken.
Hoping these things would be enough
to heal the wounds buried beneath,
inherited and innate.
But nothing changed like the seasons.
And yes, things always happen for a reason,
but it’s not decided or defined by simply knowing that.
That’s not enough.
The foreseeable forever
with all its cycles didn’t deliver
what we had thought would arrive.
We thought it was something that
didn’t require our constant creating. Our love.
And then, one Winter just never ended.
And even though we acted like it did,
the Summers grew colder
and the older and older we got
the more the trees let life break their branches.
And we filled in the holes with dead things,
hoping the blood of our pain
would help us to remain
together.
I always felt like we arrived together
but stayed alone.
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