There’s a sort of sheen,
belonging lends to its subjects.
They have bright eyes and pink cheeks
and they never fold up in on themselves
like cubes collapsing into space.
1, 2, 3,
Lost things become flat
and then they slip into the aether,
more beautiful for having once been here,
but now vanished.
We’ll never learn
to love what we have because
loss is the birthplace of love.
We have roots
that are deeper and more intricate
than our polished broadleaves
and smooth bark.
Under each facade
of grainy perfection
truth that is only ever
underground and twisted.