...

I think there's something to be said 

about the way a tree

bends toward the light, 

knowing its own decay if not; 

​

whereas my kind of photosynthesis 

gambles light for darkness 

in a moment of displaced honesty 

and my limbs can't tell the difference

between flesh and bark

​

But I want dispersed like yellow rays 

as they kiss the edges of leaves  

leaving memories an inch wide 

on rings of trees 

trees that have held time in its bark 

and yearns for us to read her brail 

​

If age is an indication of wisdom 

I want to study the direction roots grow

to envelop a body 

And learn what it means to grow

into and around a world 

that could use me for shade one day 

and paper the next

​

My own anatomy

could fall apart with a touch 

but I want to be the limbs

that bend toward the light

​

Because

a person was meant to be touched

in more ways than the skin can allow.