Poetry

Swings

I’ve come back

after so long

Our favorite spot now

rusted and creaky

Like my bones

Like your bones, too, I

suppose.

The trees and grasses

flourish; spruce and

alfalfa and

wheatgrass but

Our little ghost-tree

stands white and solemn,

clutching its secrets deep

underground

in its roots,

Unchanged.

I trudge over

slowly,

as to not disturb the sacred memories

here

Our initials

encased in a crudely-carved

heart are still etched

into the pale wood of our

ghost-tree

Something we bittersweetly

cherished

and yet, regretted.

I steady myself,

grasping the old support

beam

Hand coming away

covered in blood-

orange stains.

My swing is still

there,

Rotting and swaying

in the gentle

breeze but

yours is gone

Just like you.

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