cosmic inadequacy

there was a faint smell of cedar dilating in the air and his hair felt like pine trees on a dew-loved morning. smoke bristled against our skins as we made love to the crackling of broken oak twigs and branches; i counted the leaves left on the kitchen counter, from balding trees that stood cold and bare, sparse in the winter forest. there were twenty-four.

we picked our favourites from the bunch and left the rest to dry out like fresh linen from the washer. only this time, summer was two seasons ahead. i pressed the former onto parchment and they rested blindly on the walnut shelves.

perhaps there was a time under canopies of cherry trees– him reading his book about Japanese artworks, and me reading mine about mythical fantasies– that our love sprouted from a single shoot; two separate beings. but alas, no mahogany stands for a thousand years. for now, i can only make do with what this winter has given to me.

(till then)