I am a cryptic text from your ex
designed to undermine your week.
You don’t know what I’m about, though
the possibilities are relatively endless
given that I come from the machinations
of an addict. This picture of a tree
will not help, though it looks like the
Honey Locust you planted the year
you moved to the farm. It was nothing
more than a twig. You might think
you see something in its limbs,
a clue to context,
but the photo is too small. No,
there’s nothing here to keep you
from deleting this missive,
to cease seeking significance –
no link at all to a past
when life seemed as lucid
as sapling roots reaching
down through fertile soil.