I want to look at treetops with you and count the leaves as they fall to the ground and turn into city lights. I’ll ask my mother downstairs if she’s ever seen a boy who looks more like the color yellow than you do, and she’ll reply with a no and let us run through the Leaf Cities until our feet look like a personified fatigue.
You will ask me:
And I will choose option C, both, or falling like the leaves and falling in love with you as the city lights are swept underneath the porch, and it is time to fall asleep. You won’t be able to understand me, or my poetry, and I won’t be able to understand you because you’re a tree dressed up as a human boy.