Reid@YWP

At dusk, the city climbs into trees. Streetlights fold into branches; apartments blink like nesting owls. Commuters dangle from vines in tailored suits, sipping moonlight through trembling leaves. You knock on my bark-body, and I let you in.

Rori Acher is eighteen years old and dying. Any licensed medical professional would pronounce her perfectly healthy. But there are many ways to be dying that are not physical. 

her voice sounded heavy to her, filled

with the unnamed emotion

everyone had told her to expect. except

she hadn't. she'd rolled

her eyes at the shiny pamphlets and blog posts

Humid air drifts through the streets

Carrying the scent of damp leaves

The birds sing songs of joy 

While gathering food for their young

Flowers begin to sprout among the grass and moss

I am from mythic hues of orange and blues, 

Where the setting sun greets the gentle waves.

From solemn mornings and soft bed sheets,

To boisterous cackles and tire swings,

I am from the jostling of jewelry—

I fear death
The way I fear the end of a song
Like I fear my favorite part being gone in an instant
A moment I can never get back
A note I experience only for a blip