Sitting underneath the oak was a favourite spot of ours. Many secrets were told underneath there as it felt like a safe place to tell all. Except for Tommy, he never spoke a word.
She sat in the mother oak in her parent’s backyard and thought of every lover she ever had. Ones taller and shorter. Ones with soft hands and ones with rough fingers who touched her softly. Ones she broke and ones that left her broken. She thought of all of the gods she had prayed to and thought of all those she did not. She thought of songs that filled her head, of words etched on her bedroom walls that still made her choke. Records she played until they were ragged and worn through.
Smoke filled the air as she exhaled, the cigarette between her lips a burning reminder of all of the strangers she will never meet. All of the boys whose hearts she will not break. All of the songs she will not hear. All of those gods she will not see.
People are not snow, nor rain, nor autumn leaves falling from oak trees. They do not look beautiful when they fall.
The oak tree was our meeting place before. I think somewhere in the top branches we carved our names once, when we were small enough to climb that high. I remember being terrified that one of the branches would snap, break underneath me and I’d fall, but Brandon was never afraid of that or anything else. I guess now, looking back, he probably should have been.
Sitting underneath the oak was a favourite spot of ours. Many secrets were told underneath there as it felt like a safe place to tell all. Except for Tommy, he never spoke a word.
She sat in the mother oak in her parent’s backyard and thought of every lover she ever had. Ones taller and shorter. Ones with soft hands and ones with rough fingers who touched her softly. Ones she broke and ones that left her broken. She thought of all of the gods she had prayed to and thought of all those she did not. She thought of songs that filled her head, of words etched on her bedroom walls that still made her choke. Records she played until they were ragged and worn through.
Smoke filled the air as she exhaled, the cigarette between her lips a burning reminder of all of the strangers she will never meet. All of the boys whose hearts she will not break. All of the songs she will not hear. All of those gods she will not see.
People are not snow, nor rain, nor autumn leaves falling from oak trees. They do not look beautiful when they fall.
The oak tree was our meeting place before. I think somewhere in the top branches we carved our names once, when we were small enough to climb that high. I remember being terrified that one of the branches would snap, break underneath me and I’d fall, but Brandon was never afraid of that or anything else. I guess now, looking back, he probably should have been.
Oak
The mighty oak.
Acorns
Fallen oak.
I don’t know what else to say about an oak.
Is it strong? Can they be weak?