So the other day I found my way to the tree where we

once used to be happy.

I pressed my skin against the grain and felt the tree push back in vain

because what lives inside it can't push clear

and I can't get to it either.

My hair got caught in the drifting vines and my skin got lost in the

browning pines and I scraped the bark with my scratchy nails

and felt the tree shudder and quail.

I guess there's still life where we used to live, if unhappy.