When the mind is too conflicted,
A war between pen and paper shall suffice

I see those bright eyes
That squinted toward me when we were younger,
Admiring my wet hair and eyeing my exposed legs;
There are those locks that brushed up
Against my cheeks when I least expected it;
And that soothing voice that made my
Hips stir and my wrists sore.

We don’t even care
To bring the past up because
What’s done is done and
We must move on, right?
We’re adults now and adults need not
Share what’s on their minds. It’s written as clearly
On my face as the wind that played
With the leaves on my front porch while you fiddled
With my hair and with my heart.

The pitter patter of rain echos through the soil,
sending a message in morse code.

Biological clocks begin to turn as fungi wake from their slumber.
Hyphae radiate outward, mapping the skin of the earth,
a living neural network woven into the soil of the forest.