Pinecone

Sitting on the windowsill, yet again, crying,

talking to a lonely vine, like you aren't vying,

for the trees to hunch over and utter a word,

of solace from their sunlit minds,

breathing heavy in whispers, hiding even from time,

pretending a kiss couldn't hurt, saving words meant for tying,

a bow on it's lovely rose-coloured note, turning love into prose,

sitting on the windowsill, lying in a bed of hurt.

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For any of you who still remember, because I know I still do, and hopefully always will. I wish you peace.