021 (Tangled Roots)

He's still with me, you see. His memory is a fog around my heart, a gentle mist that reminds me each morning that I am apart.

We ran together, in a fair country of sun and light, swam in rivers slow and sweet, drank from streams of clear truth and sang songs that mAde the Angels cry as they danced with us under the moon. We held hands and danced in the street, under the light of the stars and a flickering street lamp. 

Our roots grew deep then, they entwined deep in the earth and fused together that day, as if betraying the youthfulness of our ways by creating a promise that could not be sustained, not while the earth remained untamed.

Our roots are still tangled together. I do not know how, for many miles have passed under my feet, and he journeys onward to new lands, as I knew he would, as he must. The world needs strong and valiant trees like him to rest under, to learn how to grow.

We grow apart now. I still feel the pull of the weight of memory on my heart in the night, but I am glad for roots, and that ours are still tangled.

Without them we could not grow tall.