You do not have to wait for another's embrace,

you do not have to map another's pace.

You only have to breathe into the breeze,

walk in solitary amongst the trees,

as the wind will whisper your secrets

to the chatter of leaves.

They will flow down low in despair,

and like a comb, weave through your hair,

allow the dewdrops to dive with grace,

off their leaves to kiss your face.

The birds will chirp a sweet lullaby,

the cicada's chitter will blanket your cry.

Meanwhile, petrichor will stain the mossy ground.

Meanwhile, the world will go on without your sound.

Meanwhile, their talk and talk will be drowned.

Whoever you are, the forest will not match your quickening pace,

but do not worry, it will wait for your embrace.