There is a place where the green onions grow wild, and your heart belongs there.
In the still of winter, after the snow thaws, the beavers will swim upstream, and the squirrels will fall out of trees, and you will smoke your cigarettes in the cold with your shirt on inside out and backwards.
There is an apartment, way out east where everything smells like nicotine from years before, where the couch is softer than the bed, where the world can’t find you.
And your heart belongs there.
In the middle of spring, it still flurries and rains and you will walk through the dewy grass, you will kiss me in the snow, and you will share the soft couch even though
There isn’t room.
There is a place between my fingers, between my lips, tangled in my hair, between my ears, on the back of my tongue, at the bottom of my stomach, there is a place in my chest and your heart belongs there.
I am in a place surrounded by trees, and with all this oxygen I am still struggling to breathe, and suffocating is hard because it isn’t over quickly. There is a place somewhere, where we are happy, and our hearts fit like puzzle pieces in the landscape. Where we will grow old and instead of growing up, we can just grow down into the earth.
There is a place where our bones will be buried, and our hearts will be long gone, and the green onions will still grow wild, and I hope you know that I have loved you all the while.