Treehouse

by Rachel Natale

Words dropped on the carpet and stepped on. Gathering dust
words and ring left on the coffee table words. Words that went
through the wash, forgotten in your pocket words. Meant to be
touched words, only read on your tiptoes words.

You scrubbed your face with rosemary scented soap yesterday,
and words slipped down the open drain.
Peach flavored words that leak juice between your fingers.
Words stuck between cracks in the sofa. Lost in translation, that
doesn’t mean the same thing in your language words.

You rubbed your chin and touched my hair but the words you
asked for had fallen over the edge of the balcony.
Words knitted around your neck, where snowflakes caught in
winter.

Only heard aloud words, soundless dot words, arranged
on a page in a square words, richer when they roll off my
tongue words. Words made of sand on a wooden board, breath
on a pane of glass words. Crinkle like aluminum foil words.

Last week you brought home a cactus in a pot, and words
pricked the back of your hand when you set it in the sun. Words
left in a suitcase at the train station and on scraps of paper in
a parking lot.

Sea green-grey in the morning words, drops of dew soaking the
grass words. When spring came early, you peeked through the
paper blinds and saw the words crawling out from cramped
dirt spaces that had thawed overnight.

Rachel Natalie dances, writes, and studies at Loyola University Chicago, where she blogs for Arts Alive. She typically carries a handful of starlight peppermints in her coat pocket, and occasionally tweets about her daily experiences, observations, and endeavors as @rachnatale.

See Rachel’s list of 5 Things You Should Read in our ongoing contributors’ series.