16 03 2011

I wrote this about 5 minutes ago, so apologies if it’s bad.


Skeleton leaves, tossed around on bare
stony, concrete.
They started out as life wrapped in shells,
before breaking out from the warmth.
Clawing their way to the light, for hands to pull their tired feet from the ground.
Though covered in white jackets,
or losing their hair every year,
the minutes, seconds add up to
thicker skin, rougher.

But my skin remains uncalloused,
exposed to meteors of needles and strings.

Even with my face against the window blowing shivers through my body,
the trees know me, more than you’ll ever
because they are here, and in your place are cold leaves on concrete.