Remember when you used to like me? I could do no wrong, and I didn’t. Things were beautiful. And it was between the two of us. We made that. We changed our surroundings. Our skin glowed. Our eyes matched - dark, deep, animate.
Remember when you used to like my writing? I could write stories and sonnets about us. My creativity was limitless. My soul expanded.
But I feel grey now. And brittle. There is no color. Only shades. My writing is stagnant with regret, sadness. I feel like a dead tree. I’m not even rotting, there is no activity. But my grey bark remains. The rings inside of me stay and I feel them and weep. They are so few and so close together.
There are no forest green leaves, there are no soft pink buds. No birds come and make homes. No wind blows to knock me over. I have no hope for these things.
And so remain my grey dead bark keeping in my old rings.