love,
but still, it's love in
some form
that you have for the tree.
the large
oak
that's been there forever,
carved
with names
and hearts,
and holding swings,
providing
you shade
in the summer.
it's not love, exactly,
but when
they come with their
saws
and ropes to take it
down.
something akin to tears
falls from
your eyes. but it's not
love.
no, it's not, but it's close.
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