i_talk_to_trees

I started getting folded-up sheets of blank loose-leaf paper from a girl in my algebra class six years ago. I still remember the first one I got in Junior year.

in my heart, hope is a quiet thing
a pulse beneath rubble
soft as breath against marble dust.

it doesn't sing
it lingers.
it waits in the cracks where sunlight pools
on mornings the mist forgets to rise.

There is a language 
spoken only in half-glances, 
in the weight of a pause 
just before someone smiles. 

I want to live,

I want to hear a million songs and dance in the rain,

I want to kiss and make love,

I want to see the world from every angle,

meet people that I will love and ones I won't,

in a little sun filled gale

there is a wooden swing

it's creaky and it's old, but then

so is everything

it is so dear and pretty

the meadow's filled with bees

there are flowers brushed

I hold onto anything that leaves a mark.

rings that coat my fingers in green

doodles in blue ink on my arm

I hope for my injuries to form scars

just to prove their existence.

scratching bug bites until they scab