Maple (2)

The bottom of the maple tree

suited my purposes, so I

dug down with my bare hands

until I uncovered the roots.

I took the tin box filled to the

brim with you, and stuck it

between those mighty veins.

The dried blushing roses,

the letters and the poems,

and even your marbled heart

arranged between the tissues

that dried all the tears you

gave me, buried in the ground.

And there my love can grow,

warped in the roots of that big

maple tree, rather than inside of

a heart that can no longer

sustain life. The only evidence

left behind is the black dirt

on my hands from covering

it up.

You no longer deserve

the cries of my heart.

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