Dear pomegranate tree,

What if I were a meter shorter... ? Would you allow my little bones upon your frail branches? What if I let my untamed braids tangle with your young fruit? Would you bounce and wrestle me off of you? Would he be there to catch me before I hit the ground? If I scrape my knee and shed a few tears for the pain you cause me, would you have done so to see him lift me back up? Because, dear pomegranate tree, I long to climb you. I long to stand on the wall supporting you and pretend to fly. I long to have that sweet moment when I could reach your fruit, pluck it right from the heart of your core, and pass it on to him. Share the little green globes you secretly...knowingly, allowed me to have, with him. And we run. We run away from your falling dry leaves. The wind cutting through our wide open smiles. We couldn't care less what is behind us, or ahead of us.

But dear pomegranate tree, you knew he never existed. You knew, there would be nobody to catch me. You knew, it would be your responsibility to embrace me into your gnarled branches. You knew, that even if he existed, he wouldn't stick around long enough to watch the young ones ripen. I knew, it would be just you and I. Always.

You return my empty gaze, dear pomegranate tree, and you watch and laugh at how I sit; all fours drooping to the ground from a lonely chair at the cafe. The many times I described you to people...the many times I lingered beneath your shadows.
No coffee cup sat on my table. A modern-day device called a "mobile phone" kept beeping. You warned me not to move my eyes. Your leaves wrestled, blowing my locks off of my face. The sun tanned the wrinkles above my brow..my lips sealed. What is there to say, dear pomegranate tree? If you could talk, what would you say to the concrete wall you are mounting? Should we ask the neighbouring eucalyptus? Perhaps she would say: "He does. He exists. I sheltered his steps everyday."

But I guarantee it, dear pomegranate tree, that the bougainvillea blossoms drooping over me, know that the truth is subjective. I guarantee, that that man walking with his head hanging, also knows that the truth is subjective. I bet your sweet sun-kissed dusty green hue, dear pomegranate tree, that my nonexistent partner in crime will never realise that he walked beneath your shadows many times, passing my empty table by.

The drying up coronations in the broken pot by my feet, are reminding you of the countdown to the road that leads me away from your craving melodic nestle, and out of Iraq.