Bringing down the branch of those before me,

it breams down, it bends, it breaks

and I take the leaves from their stems with my teeth. I rake them down my rotten throat.

I can feel the dying autumn specimen crack and crumble under my tongue

like marrow seeping into my molars, a callous cavity.

Sinking down into my gums, I feel the termites of your love gnaw at my jaw, leaving it locked. I cannot speak for the forest of those before me now lives in my mouth and I cannot move for the roots of our tree have crawled up my calves too fast and I cannot hear for the vines of our tangled past have slithered into my ears to croon sickly sweet nothings of my should-be future.