Your eyes are so woody that I see possible shapes of the root that bound us together. I hardly think it will bloom, but I don't stop watering it. Would it be selfish to let it die, even if only I care for it? I follow a trail through a forest that I planted myself out of sheer denial. The docile local fauna, thick roots, voluminous leaves, enchanting stretches of water, all fade when I focus my vision, an idealized future that would never leave the realm of imagination given the circumstances. For that reason, I will be a deforester, not out of hatred or resentment, but simply out of acceptance that I will never be what you expected. —Mv