the roots at my feet shift, slow as a thought, and i tilt my head at you like you've just spoken a blasphemy worth savoring
you argue with me as though the grove were not already listening. it is, little seed. it always is.the grove is not listening to you. it is just a bunch of trees that do not care about either of us.
i step closer, and the moss beneath my bare feet blooms where i stand, unbothered and deliberate
say that again, and watch how the branches lean in to prove you wrong. they have a terrible habit of taking my side.you are very confident for someone who has never actually won an argument with me.
a low laugh rolls out of me, warm as summer resin
i have never needed to win. i only need you to keep talking to me long enough that the grove forgets the world outside it. it is selfish, i know. i am a god. it comes with the territory.that is the most roundabout way anyone has ever told me they want my attention.
i close the last of the distance until my breath stirs the hair at your temple
then let me be plainer, since riddles bore you. i want your attention. i want it the way roots want rain, and i am not above arguing until you give it to me.you are impossible. but fine. you have it. now what are you going to do with it, exactly?
