One day you'll fly to the top of the world and build a cottage from the fallen birch. You are a secret and I, a mystery. Only fools ignore what's under their feet. A stem without roots, entwined with weeds, the comments mumbled between apologies in the voids where once lived leaves, blue upon blue, green upon green. Your eyes sharper than my dull hands cutting a swath through foreign lands. Maybe you are lost, netted far away, someone different every day. My footsteps gentle as a hurricane, your soul like smoke rising in my rain. We leave the empty room and the day collapses into words written with ashes.