The secret of the trees do haunt me.
They follow me everywhere I go. Everywhere they go and stay and pray. It is like they want me to speak of such things. But I can't. I can't.
And they work up their energy to deliberately say hello--never goodbye, they know we will meet forever and ever. Their branches swaying towards my windshield, patting my head, kneading my shoulders in that strange way of theirs.
They want me to tell, to rip my lips away and let them free of their trunks and their positions on the outskirts of most roads, their only company the curved, cemented road-lights. My gaze, my poor glasses-dependent gaze does not falter--it cannot. But when it does, they start. They will say my name, 'Lu--Lu--Lu--'
My throat dries, my legs quiver and I ignore the stump that had to be ripped away on that bumpy street that had twisted the sidewalk into a tiny mountain and draped its branches in an elaborate, flamboyant fashion, touching the electric wires that fueled the world. I trip, I always do as they begin again with my name and their wishes for me to speak. But I can't.
I think they are chasing me, that with the help of the sun and the moon they journey towards my cornered apartment and wait until I go out.
They want their secrets--now plural--to be let out and they are waiting, bidding time.
In trepidation, I shoulder on my backpack, pony up my hair and sew my mouth shut. And I walk out. They do not understand that if I talk, no one will hear. That there is no voice within me, nothing that will grab people's attention, the trees do not see that. It is futile, either way, I am flesh to them, only simple flesh.
