The apple tree waits, and in it she sits, above it all.

Everything, now, is about you.

Maybe it always has been, but you’re haunting me closely today.

Your breath is warm; it spills down between the lines around my eyes and mouth as I whirl to find you.

Spinning in my desk chair, arching a taunting brow, you urge me to hurry. To chase and to catch.

You sit perched high above me in a tree, your silent laughter ringing a mocking, reassuring pendulum of reminder.

Apples like figs, hair like my mother’s jewelry, I toe the line I pretend isn’t there.

The climb is daunting, and I am afraid.

My neck is craned to see you, and yours is arched down to me.

You smile when I frown and cry when I laugh. I reach for you, and you pull away; you stretch toward me, and I lose my resolve.

What does your spite mean for me?

The climb is lofty, and I am exhilarated.

Your arms surround me in a suffocating, comforting embrace.

We sway through a warped dance to reprising chimes among hands that twitch each second and faces that whisper in soft, telling breaths.

You keep your head down, a shadow across your face that mars your eyes and mouth.

I will you to look up at me, but you refuse.

I beg you to speak, but you do not reply.

Why do you haunt me if not to warn? If not to tell? If not to share?

Everything, now, is about you.

You lay yourself down at the end of your stay.

Exhausted by the aches of nostalgia coating this life and the room I inhabit.

I must remind you of her, but you are nothing like I imagined.

Or maybe you are, but I am tired too. Too tired to spend more time pretending to ponder the depth to which our relationship has persisted.

How well do I know you? Far less than you know me.

I lay down by your side as I wait for you to disappear.

You hold a green pen to my skin—my brow furrows at the color, but I can’t remember why—and paint smooth, swirling galaxies of love and sunshine into my arm. It soothes my dry skin and my confusion.

I still don’t understand what you’re doing here with your glimmering hair hiding your face, but my eyelids droop more with each pass of your green pen fingertips.

Without your voice, this is how you are telling me.

We are back beneath the apple tree; the line has disappeared.

My arms match the grass, and my hair—wild from our waltz—tangles lightly with yours, the closer we get.

Our necks are still bent toward each other. I reach for you, but your fingers are busy painting the universe into the back of my hand.

I try to memorize the image you create.

My eyelashes flutter, and I forget to get a final glance at your shrouded frame.

When I wake up, I am in my own bed; my skin is pale and clean.

But the taste of apples lingers lightly on my tongue, and when I rake my hands through my tangled hair, the smell of figs teases my senses.

Everything, now, is about you.