Love Letter to Foliage

A short fiction

I’ve got branches, the kind that should be firmly on trees, growing left and right inside me—it’s like always sleeping with the light on, Earth seen from the air at night in there, flesh and blood and young, softly-spoken green leaves. I wonder whether they will know what to do when October arrives, if they will turn to paper and fall at my feet.

I don’t remember who, but I was talking to somebody about the hardness of water, the softness of it, the way it can take things over with just atoms in space, in time. Watching them peel back the thin metallic paper that wrapped around the butter, thinking that must hurt, thinking of how awfully cold everything in the fridge must be. I rest my head, heavy from the dense leaves and ripening fruit inside it, on the warm wooden counter top, feeling small crumbs and other fractions of breakfast press their sharp edges into my face. The discomfort is comfortable, and I stay there while the world rotates, while people drift in and out of the room, picking up knives and plates and feelings.