Momentarily, nature shields my cowardly soul like a second skin. Camouflaged behind the dead veins of dying leaves, I roam free from the gaze of those who would call me strange. I dance like a ballerina. My soul skinny, like that of a junkie Santa or a wrestler three decades behind his prime. The weeds beneath my feet worm their way through the holes in my shoes before wriggling between my toes. My toes are stained from my wet, leather boots. They appear animalistic. Feral. The same as my heart; the same as the desires that set me apart from my contemporaries. Hiding behind the trees without the courage to speak what I am, the words that slip from my mouth are shaped like the hips of women I have known but never touched. They escape between the gaps in my teeth like the spit I pass into the mouth of my lover. My lover is a black star. She exists not as you are, but as I once was. As the leaves rain down, nature reclaims me as the day floats like a paper boat skirting the mouth of a sinkhole.