I think that you smell like trees and raw earth on days where we walk together in the woods and you tell me that I'm crazy for caring about the exact number of freckles on your cheeks but I think your crazy because you don't. You think that I smell like rain water that splashes into the river on days that the sky isn't the only thing the pours and I think you're crazy because you stay and wipe the tears off of my face but you think I'm crazy because I'm crying in the first place. I think that the world is far too empty of these experiences and you think that the world smells like the smoke that rises to the clouds and mingles with heaven in all its glory after forest fires cut you down to the ground and summers dry me up, but I promise you; there are roots under the ashes. In the fall I will rain down upon your trees and they will rise. Nobody can cut down the possibility of counting your freckles.