The Trees and Songs

The trees used to be greener, and less flies went throughout their lingering bodies. Now everything is a bog, almost a swamp, most of the time. It rains just as much but God doesn't come out and clean away all the dirty tears anymore; I suppose he either got lazy or tired. The only difference between the two are their connotations though, and either way he decided to take a nap during my life time. I used to run through the leaves, though, back then he could still play tag in the wind, and I knew how to listen to his voice as it went through the leaves and flowers and ferns. Marco-Polo or something along those lines, only the blindness was the camouflage of the woods, and the shade of the trees.

It was like I'd always win in those days, even if I lost. 

At night the darkness would come up like high tide; slowly and upon you without taking your notice until it was there, all of a sudden, winking out the last bit of light at dusk, and whisking it away underneath the canopy of trees with a bright red flash, followed by amber light dwindling into cold slate, and eventually foggy black. The crickets would come out and sing into the stale wind, and the owls would call out, quietly, though, as they crisscrossed from tree to tree looking for anything on the ground to eat. Sometimes you would see two orange orbs blinking in the window, if only for a second, before disappearing into the bleak darkness of the woods. They looked like ghosts when I was a kid, and that was enough to make them into ghosts, the ghosts that followed me everywhere, waiting for me to fall asleep so they could sneak in and steal my body away from me in my dreams.

On nights like that all there was left was the ideas in the palm of your hands and the hopes that you had enough willpower to keep up a shield around your room, so that they didn't know who you really were, or what was inside of you.

Back then I was always waiting for the day that I could kiss lips like orange peels. 

Still am. We all are, and constantly.