metaphorically speaking, of course.

after i die,

i like to think

that someone will plant

a tree over my body.

couples will carve their

"everlasting" love

here i am,

foolishly trying to describe

the feeling of sitting up

high in an oak

and writing poetry.

here i am,

watching the sunset

above long green grass

and typing into an ugly

love, you say, 

is as tenderly golden as 

buttercups in may, 

as apollo's flaxen hair. 

and you wish for a lover.

fated together

as achilles was with