You laugh, loud and clear, At my look of pure horror When you tell me what paper is. Careful, you’ll stick like that, love – You said, as I blink at the thin page, As barely there as my pale skin. Not at all rough, like its body outside, That glimmers with bright baubles, Even when it’s not nearly Christmas. There is no shine here, no warmth, Like the pies, golden, and sweet – Or presents, and smiles. Just nothing. The lack of, the after, Empty plates and frowns – It reminds me of the stones, Dry, blank, and rough, … Continue reading “Dead Trees” by Chloe Smith