The fire tree would lie if it, one day, would say that it has not bore witness to how my heart skipped, stopped, and gyrated during certain times of the day, when the sunlight peeks through that broad glass window at Berchmans AVR and when I walk to the Gonzaga building on my way to Lit class. The fire tree, with its beautiful orange leaves and an all-knowing smile, knows how my fingers have orchestrated the music of you, the one my heart secretly danced - dances - to. It knows how it should stop, the addicting symphony of dreams and desires lost and found, but it does not conspire with the looming reality of yet another unrequited love to pu
The fire tree would lie if it, one day, would say that it has not bore witness to how my heart skipped, stopped, and gyrated during certain times of the day, when the sunlight peeks through that broad glass window at Berchmans AVR and when I walk to the Gonzaga building on my way to Lit class. The fire tree, with its beautiful orange leaves and an all-knowing smile, knows how my fingers have orchestrated the music of you, the one my heart secretly danced - dances - to. It knows how it should stop, the addicting symphony of dreams and desires lost and found, but it does not conspire with the looming reality of yet another unrequited love to pu