Coming of Age

I spent two days with you in a bed made ***** by breakfast crumbs and tears and sweat from last night relearning the way your body contours when it sleeps.
I know I was getting too close, but nobody gives a **** about what you do on your birthday.
I had forgotten what it was like to be yours. You picked words like apples from the high round bits of my face with your teeth tucked behind your lips. Crisp and sweet like we thought it wouldn't be.
I know that every good day has it core. Even the peach of your mouth has its pit, but our roots run deeper, freer, from orchard blocks and white picket fences.
We planted seeds even though the soil was rocky and dry. Like vines, we intertwined, even though our souls are parched and tired.
I'm turning green, like the sunflower stems on my dusty window sill.
Your evergreen isn't planted in my yard, but your roots run in it.
Yesterday was hard for all of us,
but tomorrow promises rain to wash us clean.
They say to never plant before a rain because the water will sweep the seeds away. Carry them into the next garden, next county, next life
but if you're too ******* afraid to start again once everything's been flooded, you're never gonna grow.