by jules washington

i hope you found the letter that i wrote yesterday. i was sitting in my room on the eve of autumn’s end, without the echoes of your voice bouncing off the walls. a cold wind started to settle in, and my heartbeat slowed. i looked up from my pen and paper, saw but a few leaves swaying in the wind, and thought about the first time that you smiled at me. it was when i was born, only three months ago. the way your lips creased was pleasant, and i knew i’d grow quite fond of you after that. i thought about how cold my skin felt in that moment, as i was writing it, even though the 6:04 PM sun-rays beamed through my window and painted the corner of my room the color of your skin. my outer layer was firm and rigid. bark-like and withering. my mind flooded with images of us, laying in the bed that i was sitting in, and i wanted so desperately to see your eyes staring back at me whenever i looked up. i loved your gaze so dearly. it tickled me like leaves falling on my face, gave me a smile, and warmed me like the golden sun. somehow, though, i always managed to make you sad. i never stopped looking at you when you cried. i stared at you with wide eyes and empty branches, and it scared you. or, at least, you said it did. i wanted to swallow your tears: salty, sea-like, savory, and satiating; to feed your sadness to my roots and sprout like a seed. but i could never get enough. i can’t grow. i remembered every line and mark on your face, so that one day i could paint a picture of you and use my branches like paintbrushes. i care about you, so i’m sorry to leave you devastated. when i saw you yesterday, at the end of the equinox, you said that i wouldn’t see you again, and i asked you why. you said that we’ll talk tomorrow. when you woke up today, and all of the trees were dead, you couldn’t find me. that’s because i also died today.