I can't see
The insides of my eyelids have been my solace
All I know is the sycamore I lay under
I lay on my back in hopes that my eyes will  miraculously open to the crisp sky
The sycamore rots
At least I think its a sycamore
It has an indistinguishable tang of cinnamon that cooks off the bark and hangs in the hot air in summer
and a desperate perfume of musk from the roots lingers in the breeze on wet days
Its branches are broken
I hear the wind whistle through cracks and crevices as if its trying to erge them to let go and fall to the ground
Wet and seeping
Dripping down on me
I dont move because I like how the drops caress my skin as they roll through my pours and onto the mossy earth
Sometimes one falls and sits on a shoulder, or a knee
Staying with me
I have some company