Yesterday we walked in the woods and the smell of birch, the orange peeling bark of pines like strips of grease proof paper and dead grey trunks still erect, plunged into me and made me breathe in.
The moist, cold earth loose underneath our searching footfalls...
The compost of autumns past and forgotten, the tiny purplish blueberry shrubbery and the lichen and the golden sun on the tree tops...
A smell so sweet and fragrant I wish I could have bottled it.
In these parts the woods are still wild, even though there are well-trodden paths crisscrossing it made by animals and later followed by humans. There is not a sound in there, just our feet on the ground carefully avoiding the gnarly, bare roots springing up from the soil unanimously trying to trip us.
The parallel sun sifts through the leafy vegetation creating luminous mirages across the pathway. Finally we pass into the chilly shade of blue pines and feel alone like lost children.
Here is where you kiss me, with the stillness of the landscape in my ears and the shadows growing beyond my closed eyelids. I am imagining the trees looking over us, towering above our lilliputian heads, and there is a murmur rising from somewhere within.
Then we walk back, with our faces burning, tripping on all those roots now in our fervor as the murmur grows louder.
And when we finally reach the fringes of the forest, now freshly grown and green and light, never to return again, the sound lifts
And I knew you would never be mine.
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