Ice floes bump and drift off the shores of Reykjavík above dark blue depths, statues in the cold half-light. They shift like the gray slivers in your eyes, slipping in and out of shadow. Their cracking and groaning makes a melody of highs and lows, shaking in the air as if blown through the channels of an icy harmonica, sweet as the sound of your voice or the sheen of dawn blooming like a rose on your blond hair.
I have been slipping seeds into your food, watermelon, apple, anything I think you might not notice and some you may. I sprinkle sunflower seeds onto your salads and bake you those of pumpkins. You see, I hope they'll grow. More than that, sometimes I slip in bits of dirt when I cook your meals. I encourage you to drink more water, insist we venture outside more in the daylight.
I know you're growing bored with me; I sense that you want to part, but I can't let you go. So I will poison you with seeds until your plan to uproot our relationship is conquered by mine, to cultivate roots inside you. They will spread out, branches bursting from your ears and nose and mouth, until they erupt through the soles of your feet. And then I will curl up under your shade and sleep, safe in the knowledge that now you will never leave me.