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By Berick

It's not fair. I'm much too young to die. I've felt it coming for decades now, but as my time draws to a close, it still seems so sudden.

I suppose, in a way, it is for the best. After all, I miss her so much. Her sounds. Her touch. Our limbs entangled on those cold, blustery nights. Her name is... was Juniper, and death is all that could possibly bring an end to my grieving.

It was her early demise that foretold my own. I still vividly remember that terrible day. The day the bluff gave out underneath her. The screams of her fall, the crash... As years went by, the bluff continued to slowly erode away; exposing my own roots to bitter air. Every day, I could feel death creeping agonizingly toward me.

Now, the ground is finally giving and it is my turn to fall. I will not die instantly. No, my death will be a painfully drawn out process. My leaves will wither, what branches I have left will dry out and snap away, and I will be left to rot next to the husk of my love. Few fates could be so cruel.

The air is still, yet I feel wind rush through me as I plunge. I savor every moment of it, for I will never again feel it's glory. My roots cry out as they are pulled free, and my thoughts turn to when I last heard that sound. As my limbs are broken and torn away, I focus on her to take my mind off the pain. Perhaps I will land close enough to feel her one last time...