The oaks in the yard hummed that day, and aspen poplar fuzz carried their whispered innuendos to the blue sky. In the old car, Dean Martin blew bubbles in smooth waves. You stood there on the grass, your silent pleading deafening.
You were starting to grow inside me like a tree, anchored in the traitorously fertile soil of my soul. You reached inside me with insidious hands, pulling at my core like starved ants pull apart the corpse of a butterfly to nourish themselves. Scared, I fled, relinquishing myself to a freedom misunderstood.
