First Fraction of Twelve

The arms of the trees reach to the sky
and they lay on the angle of fifty-five,
tilting to the east, begging for the sunrise
just trying to be alive,
driving and thriving to
obtain those seething leaves that
left so easily and fast.
Your image is only in the future and past,
and I’m trying to get that memory to last.
I think so hard about it until I
can almost touch you again.
I’m counting to ten,
pretending that these six months will dissolve by then.
But these days, they are going by like years
and I’m just trying
so hard
to keep it
together





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