6.22.17

The only place I can see you is here now, in this world overwrought with things that had been you. Piano keys littering the soil like leaves, sheet music composing trees and trunks instead of melodies. Tabs of benadryl leading the path. You want me to follow, I know -- so I pretend the pills are breadcrumbs, step carefully over them, and make sure to face forward. Don't look back. The forest reeks of antiseptic; it breathes the chemicals, pausing only to produce more beneath the surface. But I tread on. Chaotic, off-tune notes of some melody play softly in the distance, and I know there is little time to reach it.

A clearing. A fractured piano. You: tired and unfamiliar in a hospital gown I don't recognize. The forest has grown its roots in my feet. Curled around my throat.

This isn't your fault, you say, smiling.