If you asked around town, nobody would be able to tell you when the trees had appeared. One person might tell you that they had always been there, seemingly from the dawn of time. Another might say the first settlers of the village had planted them, side by side, as tribute to the help they had received when they were still babes to the new land. Wherever they had come from, they were clearly sacred to the tiny village.

    The twin trees grew together tall and mighty in the middle of a sunny clearing near the small village. The clearing was a favorite spot of lovers both young and old, to rest and exchange affection under.

    There was nothing truly remarkable about the two trees at first glance. At first glance, the trees appeared to be nearly identical, but for a slight height difference and the locations of the tiny pink blossoms that sprouted all over the trees in the spring time. The trees huddled together in the clearing, much like two lovers sharing body heat. At some point over the years, the branches stretching between them had twined together like hands and kept growing that way.

    When civilization grew up and the tiny village grew into a town, the trees stayed where they were and the town grew up around them, displaying the trees right in the middle of the town square, as if by some silent agreement. Nobody ever talked of cutting the trees down, even during the harshest winters, when the little town was covered in a blanket of icy snow and in desperate need of firewood.

    Then one day, the little town grew into a city. And even despite the growing concrete jungle around them, and the disappearances of most of the other trees surrounding them, the trees stayed standing, holding each other up after all the years. Lovers flocked to picnic beneath the two beautiful old lovers' trees in the middle of the city's large park. And in winter, when the trees huddled together alone for warmth, the same lovers would pause beneath the trees on moonlit sidewalks, glittering with snow, to share sweet, warm kisses in the cold. The trees were just as much a part of city life as they had been when the city was a childish little thing with far fewer inhabitants.

    After many years, as it goes with all living things, one of the ageless trees began to die. They had been standing there for more years than any living person could count, and it was natural that they would begin to die. Yet, despite the parallel decaying nature of the other proud tree, they continued to hold each other up for another decade or so, seeming to share each others' strength. Until one stormy night, when a particularly fierce thunderstorm sieged the city, shutting all but the bravest inside tall apartment buildings and sending all others scurrying into taxis and under awnings. The two trees huddled together with only each other for safety.

    In the morning, when the early risers began to venture outside for their early morning jogs and coffee runs, they would notice one fallen, cracked tree and another drooping over it, as if in mourning for its fallen comrade. They would note the branches of the weeping tree, still outstretched to the fallen tree, as if frozen in time, reaching to help the other. And the sight would evoke a strange unidentifiable tugging in the viewers' hearts, as if they too felt the loss of the once proud trees.

    She sits on her knees in a field of purple. She tastes the rich lilac in her fingertips; lush, soft, amaranthine grass tickles her bare thighs under her dress as she tilts her head back to look up at the sky. Yesterday, it had been blood red. Today, it is a clear absinthe pool, the tangerine leaves above her dancing across its surface as through syrup.

    Here, it is as though a bubble encapsulates her. When she comes here, it is as though silvery warmth slides over her head, flowing tingling silken air down through her fingertips and toes. She can lie in this space for hours, nothing but the silence to keep her company.

    Time has no meaning in this place. If she stays here for days, it could be only minutes later that she returns in reality. She could spend only moments here, and wake up five hours later there.

    She can never think of there as "home." There is loud, violent, screaming parents, fighting friends, rebellious brothers, always too dumb, too slow, never good enough. There is harsh red and gloomy grays, pale white and stormy blues.

    No. She would much rather lose herself in the tall lush waves of here. Just a moment longer… only a moment longer here, then she can go back there. Only a moment longer…

    Words never seem to be enough.

    How could I possibly express my love, hate, apology, adoration, feelings with letters thrown together on a page?

    Essays- cold, impersonal, factual- are easy enough. They are only statements of fact and sometimes a little bit of opinion thrown in. Studious observations made to sound academically intelligent. But when I want to put my feelings to page, all the words I have ever known seem to fly away. How could I put down on paper what my heart wants to communicate? I spent my childhood buried in books, hoping and failing to express myself the way my favorite authors seemed to do so seamlessly and easily.

    I have always been better at expressing myself through touches. Perhaps I even stifle others with my casual brushes of affection, constant hugs, and reaffirmations of my love. The touch of the fingertips has always been ideal and comforting. People can get lost in words, breeding miscommunication and confusion in overanalyzations. The familiarity of a friend held close to my heart is comforting, easy.

    Until touches don't mean enough anymore. And I have to make sense of the jumble in my head so I can make somebody else understand.

    Somehow the toughest thing is what ought to be the easiest.