to the trunk of a tree

disposable and weathered and well aware of the depths of difference between hope and reality. look up from your phone. peer through the clouds for refuge somewhere else. disappointments fill the trolley I push through the underpass lit by billboards of failed franchises and bus windows. healing as a process holds weight, clouding over empty fields and Sunday afternoons. healing as a process wears many faces, none of which appeal at first glance, unfiltered and frightening and ghostly. healing as a process never ends. we wake to breathe and continue and fish out our own answers. I lurk in the shell of a life I can’t love: still attached to the trunk of a tree I’m now not.