Cool eyes watch the forest of your lips. The curve of your mouth reminds me of the hook at the end of a praying mantis’ front legs: serrated, catching on the web that masks the rest of your face. Who are you? I can’t answer. Who are you? I can’t answer.
Yours is the shaded bench placed beside the stream where tired walkers rest their feet whilst watching the ducks at play.
Yours is the mansion with the ivy climbing high to the window of the first floor bedroom, where its creeping tendrils lightly finger the latch.
Yours is the garden that is home to upright stones marked with old names, beaten down by wind and rain to become unreadable.
And yours is the oak tree that has been growing for a thousand years, whose roots intertwine with the forgotten skulls in the invisible pit.