The Lost Girl

Beneath a Saraca Indica tree, the sorrow tree, you sat alone wondering and wanting to ask, but you remained still and silent, listening to the heavy sound of fleeting birds. "I live in a small town," you whispered, "not too far from the city." This city, the city that you would frequent, where nobody knew you but they knew who you wanted to be; it became you, your life, your family, your friends. This city was everything to you. Not the people, but the streets, the culture, the cracks in old, weathered pavement. The yellow, blue, orange, red houses. The marketplaces lit only by sunlight and diverse fruit. Each day you brushed your hair, tied it back, wore that old green shirt with the brown and yellow buttons, those boat shoes, and walked through the city, smiling with your tongue hiding behind your teeth and your fingers crossed behind your back. How could you lie to the city the same way you lied to me? They trust that you will stay, but you are a nomad. Wanderlust in your heart, singing devil in your ear, whispering "Won't you stay?"