Old trees

Your name
is the only one
that i dream
of carving
into
old trees.
Amid the madness
and all the fear
I had of losing you
(or of never
really having you
to let go of in the
first place)
there is a blurry picture
inside of me.
It is of an (almost)
broken
rope-swing,
swaying to
the tingling
of a small
wooden xylophone
-found on a road
that has a forest
on its left-hand
side,
a still from our love story
on its right;
and a field of bluebells
in the
middle.