by chelsey storey
The memory of you is clinging to me
like the snow
on so many trees rooted
to the ground, alive
but going nowhere. Sometimes
I forget I’m not those trees, waiting
for the spring, or to be
chopped down. Or maybe
I’m just moving at the rate
Of snowfall. Today I might have been pregnant
with an idea, a moment
I long to get back to, but I’m scared
to even roll down the window.

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