A/N: Written for the Diversity Writing Challenge, 100 word exactly poem

branching from the same seed

Branches grew from seeds
adrift in blood; they could've
been the same, but they're not:
they're enemies instead.

That's fine; she prefers the tears; at least
she's on the right, and there's a gentle hand
with handkerchief, dabbing
at her eyes…

Who cares if they leave bruises blue,
almost black, when a gentle hand
comforts them.

Her skin's always
dry and warm
despite the tears
that kiss her cheeks

But he's cold all over:
colourless unlike her: decked in blue
(he'd look terrible in blue).

She wonders where they split
in that tree's branches
to make then enemies
like this.