Dry knuckles with streaks of blood guided by gravity, crack at the attempt to claw their way out of ashy barren hills.
A parched landscape thirsting for moisture, but all it can receive are the empty kisses of forever on its forehead.
Forever lasted a second, a minute, a lifetime But a second nonetheless.
His long nimble branches snaked around me in agile movements whispering to me the gentle winds of care.
But it was autumn.
And he was dying.
And his fruit no longer held nourishment.
It had withered
He had decayed… Inside me
Dry barren curves so thirsty for moisture began to accept any form of liquid in the hopes that the more she welcomed it maybe,
just maybe, she may be pitied.
However the rains that came were not the ones she had prayed for hourly.
They were the kinds of rain that bore fruit on barren lands.
Dry cracked knuckles that tried to knead moisture out of ashy barren hills
To an already withering Plant.
She was a desert
His rain provided no moisture
That Plant was doomed from the moment it became a seed.