Today I caught myself whispering: I belong to the trees and the broken things.
I can’t state with firm affirmation that I myself am not broken but here’s what I do know: I absorb trembling hands against nervous skin like rain into a starved, July soil and I breathe the iron cologne of long-goodbyes between strangers. Maybe I’m an empath, maybe I’m simply sensitive to others and their cracked foundations because I lean a little to the right on windy days.
My veins don’t always feel like tree roots but today they did; today they were heavy with a sadness I’ve never been able to identify in ink blots or on laminated charts. I’d like to think those veins are rich with something – tenderness, maybe? Like my body somehow produces an excess of gentle words and forehead kisses through photosynthesis. Wouldn’t that be something? To leave a carbon stamp on this world like an oak but, instead of gifting oxygen, I’d wrap tiny love letters in newspaper and twine. I’d dream someone would fold my words into boats and send them down the current of the Missouri. Or craft my promises into kites and let them sing among the very trees I wish to be.
📷 :: 2-22-2019 ©️ Pearl Bayou