It was her.

She was everything.

She was the golden sun that shone through tree branches in your unfortunately struggling photographs.

She was the tree branches that grew from a strong foundation.
She was the foundation, the Earth, with hair the color of beautiful soil and eyes the color of the leaves that sprout from it.

She was the sky, pale blue underneath a layer of white soft epidermis.

She was the bedrock that lay beneath her soil, strong as the foundation, strong as the sprouts, strong as the pale blue that lie beneath the white, translucent skin.

She was thin as the paper that was made from her sprout, her bark, her exterior.

There had never been something so beautifully created by the hands of an omniscient God, much less a human.

There had never been something so creative as to imagine this beautiful girl.

She was one of her own.

She was created from the universe as a gift to our pitiful eyes which saw nothing but ourselves.

This girl, little did I know, would teach me to view myself in a way no other could.

She would teach me to open my eyes and see others as they would see me, for the rest of my life.

But she was not like me.

She would never be like me. I was not like this girl, and I could only ever hope to be as beautiful and graceful as she.

I am like a flower that grows from that soil.

I am the flower that sprouts next to her, the tree.

I am the flower that waves in the wind, unable to hold myself up.

Unable to open up when I need to. I am the flower that is kicked, pushed, pulled, and yanked out of the ground by passer byers as a gift to their lover.

I am the flower that dies after a few days, she is the tree who lives for five hundred years in a park, with lovers names carved for everyone to see.

In the end,

She will have more scars than me.

I will have been gone long, long before she even began to grow.

She will forever be beautiful.

She will forever grow stronger and stronger every day.

I will return to my original form,

My head hung low, petals fallen out.

I will die a shallow death, in a vase left to sit on a dresser in a young girl’s room.

I will be then pressed into a book.

I will then be put behind a glass marble,
Pressed into a hollow necklace.

I will forever be worn around a young woman’s neck,
Taken everywhere she goes.

I will see every day of her life, while the tree sits solemn, beautiful and tall, watching over others;

Who just like me, came and went with the change of the winds.