I used to sit under the willow,
legs stretched out in the grass,
fingers tracing the rough bark,
waiting for something to change—
but nothing ever did.

The quiet was thick there,
the kind of quiet you don’t notice
until hours slip by,
and you’re still just sitting,
letting the wind move through the branches
like it has no other place to be.

Now, I’m back,
older,
sitting under the same tree,
but this time,
there’s something else—
something heavier,
a weight I didn’t carry before.

I’m thinking of him—
the way his voice feels like home,
how his laugh stays with me
long after he’s gone.
How I’ve come to expect him
like the seasons,
and yet, he’s not always there
when I need him.

The tree doesn’t ask for anything.
It just stands,
roots deep,
branches low,
as if it’s seen it all.

I wonder if it knows what love feels like,
the ache of wanting someone
who isn’t always ready to show up,
the silence that fills the space
between words,
between touches,
between everything you want
but can’t quite hold.

I lean against the bark,
feeling it solid beneath me,
thinking maybe it’s not about waiting—
maybe it’s about learning
how to stay,
even when the world keeps moving.