If trees could talk, what do you suppose they would say?
Would they keep our secrets?
Or would they tell of your quiet footsteps climbing up to my bedroom window in the darkness of the nights we were supposed to be sleeping in separate beds?
Would they tell of the shakiness of my fingers grasping into bark as you pushed me up against the oak the first time we kissed?
Would they tell you that kiss wasn’t my first against that very tree, but it was the first that left every fiber of my being electrified?
I wonder if the tree could feel the jolt of electricity that passed through my body each time you said my name or the butterflies that stirred in my stomach each time your crystal blue eyes met mine.
I wonder if the tree could feel my heart breaking into a million pieces as I sat at its roots while you told me over the phone what you had done.
I wonder if the tree felt your pain as you climbed up it one last time, frantically banging on my bedroom window in the middle of a rainy night with your heart in your hands and tears rolling down your face, this time not caring who heard.
I wonder if the tree knew I was lying when I said I didn’t want to see you again.
Would the tree tell you the secret I whispered into the wind that rustled the leaves later that night?
Could the leaves carry the message to you that I was not strong enough to tell you myself?
Would it tell you how much my heart longed to have you kiss me against the bark or carve our initials into the wood again?
“Forever,” it said.
Could the tree deliver on promises that we weren’t strong enough to keep?