Soul logoff

The softest thing—that pink bloom on the tree—

Last winter, she refused the flame silently.

She bloomed too earnestly,

Turned a movie into a lifetime.

I tried to refuse that flower but couldn’t escape.

She dialed the small soul from the forest’s edge.

I forgot to admit—sorry—

It was a string of numbers that never existed.

On the day I turned seventeen, the crabapple bloomed again.

Even the petals turned my page then.

Playful, the wind disrupted her rhythm.

Dodging earnestness, I logged off that soul.

In the end,

Within the stamen by the wooden bridge,

Lies a melting period.