The stars don’t sing like we do.
Nor do the birds. And we won’t
speak of trees and their moans
and how they work to feed
their fallen despite the inevitable.
Somehow they go on.
Bruises heal, as do memories,
and I choose the good over
the bad. How could you have lost
yourself so quickly? I picture you
in that hallway, confused, alone.
Like the trees, I am not afraid of dying.