poem (no title)

i could run to the hill tops screaming your name, and still you don't come.

i could write letters and spray the note with a soft spritz of love, and still you don't come.

i could dress in my silky whites, sheer and drenched from the rain. at my most desirable, and still you don't come. 

time goes on and i rot in the ground.

my legs form into the roots of a large oak tree. 

my bark is strong and a beautiful shade of brown. 

my sap is sweeter than any syrup you've ever taste.

 now that I'm one with the most beautiful thing on earth... you still don't come.

my soul dies. 

its ripped out the tree, and as i rise i see you.

you; walking with a women much like me to the oak tree.