Because I used to love you

The Tree rose, in youth, out of the square of exposed earth in the concrete courtyard. Steady, straight. Stone structures loomed above It, boxed It in. The tree grew, peeled at Its trunk, spread at Its joints, stretched at Its tips. It shared in season Its passing leaves with the unappreciative patterned cement surrounding ground.  Then in time It stopped, potential growth contained by the small space into which it had been born. Repetition then deadened any sense of the passing of time. Rain came and went. The sun moved in repetitious cycles, pathing across the sky. The many shades of the sky became monotonous. Eventually the tree became indifferent to the indifference of Its surroundings and then inevitably forgot that it was even a tree at all.