We grew up and old like vines,

growing along the same trellis

our stories weaving together in a heap of curling photographs and triggering memories

crossing back over the same twenty or thirty times we saved each other.

But we are not the same plant-

You are red grapes and I am strawberries

I am sweet and plump, shaped like a heart that beats too fast and too loudly.

You will age to make fine wine, complex flavors with notes of flowers and oak trees.

You have an ability to thicken your skin, smooth and blank on the outside

encasing juicy stories, different colors, thin veins that the world likes to slice through.

I always wear my seeds on my sleeve, no shell to save my insides from the world's caprice

trying too hard to make the earth smell like summertime.

It was only a matter of stress, of shriveling, of the sun beating down

that we would start to strangle each other by holding on to our homes too tightly.

The years ticked by and we grew sideways, reaching away from each other to our own kind,

to similar tastes, clashing against the world we once knew,

dancing around each other's leaves and feelings.

Now here we are, half-attatched to our new spaces,

hemispheres away from each other,

still grasping those dead old branches we used to feed from.

I cannot stand to watch them squash you into a cheap wine,

when all along I knew you would be worth thousands.

Scissors at the ready, I am forced to look back on our older, stronger vines.

I think I am worried about whether or not I will still be strong without you.

I am afraid to do the proper pruning, to cut away the branches that cross yours,

our shared experiences that define so much of my life.

I am aching for the rain, for the sun, for the promise of healthier days

no one wants to eat a berry that is turning brown.

It's time for me to start growing again.

I just don't want to cut you down in the process.