At the hurl of a storm, the tree collapses.

Stagnant from then on, broken. Such an easy thing to be.

In the unpredicted wind, it sways

back and forth on its trunk, tendons straining

in the months of darkness and cold, i never stopped writing.

i just kept it all to myself. every night, my own religion

pages of pen poised on paper, pouring my heart out

i don't want to love someone

because i'm supposed to

you told me, one night in mid-july.

warm air and sun fading in the sky,

i want to fall in love with someone