you are lakes hooked between mountains, and forests twisted with moss and age and forgotten names carved onto the barks of trees that never will. you are the sound the wind makes as it blows over the skin of the water, making ripples of blue and green and faint yellow sunlight.
if you were a flower, you’d be the speedwell. bright, blue, and silent. they bloom in the spring on mossy grounds in wildwoods, twining with the grove plants and pressing against the sweet grass.
no longer accepting