I would have given you the sky
ripped it down in ribbons,
torn from the blooms of wild orchids,
stretched it between my hands
a trembling net
and let the silver spill
through your fingers like petal-fractured glass.

But I was born
with empty pockets,
lungs full of jasmine dreams,
too many blooms crushed underfoot,
too little space to let them grow.

So I lay them at your feet
stitched with lavender
tattered blueprints
of something holy.

Walk softly
even roses have thorns.

You move like ink
bleeding into midnight
a shadow wrapped in the cool petals of forget-me-nots,
spine carved from hunger,
the moon bends,
spills its cold teeth
against your cheek,
and even the stars
whisper your name
every shade tangled in your gaze
light and dark
ruin and rapture.

Love is thorns
in bloom
in its buried root.

Wild roses
know no master,
They drink from the throat of storms,
They spit blood from its petals.

Some flowers
endures when winter
gnaws the bones,
splitting skin like frost-kissed razors.
Beauty cuts,
sweetness scars,
and yet—still,
still
we reach for it
with bloodied hands,
with thorn pricked fingers,
fingers cracked open like rusted doors.

I lost it then
the moment splitting like a cracked mirror
I didn’t know.

Would I have held tighter?
Could I?
Not sure
it just slipped away,
like fallen petals in the wind.

They tell me,
it’s nothing to grieve,
nothing to hold.
Still, I’m empty
waiting
did I lose you
or was I already gone?

And I wonder now,
was it worth it
this burn in my chest,
this hole in my heart,
the way your name sticks like honey on my tongue
what can I say
I didn’t see it coming,
just a sharp pull, like roots tangled beneath skin.

Time folds,
Time changes,
the way a rose blooms and fades
each petal a lost whisper in the dark.

But I never forget,
How can I forget,
I wish
I could forget,
Sometimes,

I see your face,
shadows under your eyes,
the way you move
your scent that dances
upon summers breeze
and I wonder,
was it just the wind?

Or did we leave something in each other,
something that was carved into each other soul
something so real it hurts,
something that cannot die?

Some things bloom slow
from a fallen seed
roots unseen
knotted veins in the gut of the earth
and by the time we know,
they are already part of us,
vines that have crept into
who we are.

If I could remember
the first time
your breath bent the air near mine
would I have held it closer?

Made a shrine
of the moment?
Or was it meant to slip
traceless
faceless,
so I could spend a lifetime
searching
for its echo?
for a memory I can't forget.